Give me the beginning of a story
that becomes a thousand stories
which do not unravel because of
half-truths in their beginning.
Give me a story I belong to.
Give me, in this hungry bowl
words that sink into the bone
and nourish the will to grow.
One day these words will be the ribs of a cathedral,
these thoughts will be the structures where I pray
to my god.
Give me work for my hands to do.
Thoughts never make or move
change or obstacles.
Hands are the instruments
that make sound in the world.
Hands are the midwives
of what the mind conceives.
Waste my hands and my thoughts are never born.
Give me a map
to navigate my life in this world.
How can your map be useful
if you don’t know where I come from?
How could you know
if you never visited me there?
Give me lessons
that don’t ask me to unlearn.
Don’t divide my trust between truth and father.
Give me lessons in the language of my mother.
Your cultivation is pulling me up by the root.