We were infinitely open to the kneading of the air
and time and darkness were laid upon us.
Sparrows would feast on our giving

But, hidden in small, asphyctic jars- a company for the dead-
we didn't turn and neither we became.
Counted for, whispered a prayer upon,
we were given in hope of a spring beyond,
and then forgotten.
Sparrows could not find us.

When they pry open the place of rest,
all rises to meet the light, and what was completed
-even when cut down before its time-
as ripe as a fruit uneaten, decays once more.

We, unplanted, uncared, un-waited for
do not die neither parch,
as unlived is the life that wasn't grown of us.
We are un-alive and undead,
unprotected by the winter cold,
un-awakened by the warmth of spring.
And a sparrow, now, would leave us unclaimed.

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