Because phone
calls, mothers, because children scream
softly they still want to touch me. Because
sirens. Because cameras and tanks. Because there
is no choice but to head for the hills. Because
terror. Because running scared. Because breathe, because
breathe, because spasms, beats. Because from a bench I
step to the air— watch as my city
folds down to a circle.
a selection from the poem “The maturation of man” by Daniel Khalastchi
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