The ink spreads across the folds of my fingers
smearing into them as if I had just voted.
Perhaps in a way I did,
by picking up the pen, loading it with dark brown ink
to write down words on paper.
Like bullets in the gun of the murderer,
like missiles in the arms of separatists.
We write, truths conjectures dreams landscapes
descriptions narratives, and ideas,
feeding them into the minds of others
changing their souls, just that bit.
Like murderers our hands are stained
with the crimes of our passions.
Happy Birthday Zerá.