Oh, how Kundera was right, the unbearable
lightness of being bears down on one like
a granite feather.
Lay me down with your warring waste.
I would purify you.
Knock me out with his demanding fist.
I would spare you.
Burden my ebbing youth with fallen heros.
I would set you free.
Upon daylight’s dais, idle hands and able
bodies know neither ballast nor blood.