The parable of the seed

I believe that I existed
long ago, cold ago,
when these tulips were drafted
by hand, and my body yet to be sculptured
in gold.

I believe in just one thing; a mystical one,
it may look like centaurs galloping in forests
a vivid stream that jumps from the river
to float into galaxies,
and that is me.

I, the creator of Gods, as a metaphor;
I, who gets to choose between planting seeds
or fabricate paper sheets where to write on.

You, who’s parental story is similar to mine in many layers
even though distance obstructs the chance to meet us.
You, coinciding with me at random parties
the unexplanable patrón, held almighty,
fitting perforations.

This world is me, and the kingdom was ours.

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