ForkWord
Poems by Inchiki
Our Planet
is a seed
and the yellow sun
has cracked it
into a furze of malt
all our pallid faces
the tree from which it fell
was defined by its event log
scattering fruit to the furthest
loaded by identity
fertilised with the fabric of space
the universe is our father
the event tree our mother
somewhere nearly identical
our sisters and brothers
for the purposes of this fancy they shall exist
