A tale as old as time –
the kind every house keeps buried in the cellar.
A tale that smells of onion skins, soot, and stone.
(What if my tale should die
unspoken and untold…)

They say behind the water fountains,
beneath bridges, and in nooks at home,
the little ones curl up – grown cold, unbaptized.
Тhe nawie.
Frail, miscarried infants, not to blame.
(What if this inner stirring dies
unbaptized and unnamed…)

They say it startles you time and again,
for as long as you draw breath on this earth.
It will catch up with you in the dark –
this unholy cry,
the inconsolable cry.

(What if my feeling for you dies
unwritten, uninscribed…)

If my feeling for you dies, unwritten and unnamed,
its sleepless spirit will step out to meet me,
year after year.

I wall up its feral shadow into words.
What if my feeling dies like that –
never born, unstirred.