Days, bring me wind
Of good tidings
From lands afar off
Where I uttered my first cry
And took my first drink
Of warm milk.
And be gentle with me,
If you must bring a sting.
Be gentle,
Lest the pot of dreams
Break with too great a force
And scatter pieces
To dark corners.
For if the pot must break,
I want to be able
To pick all the pieces
For burial.
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