from the drooping sap of the apple tree
my mother climbed before she could define gravity.
from the rosebud on my grandfather’s grave,
where the breath of the dead willed away November’s webbed frost.
from the ovule of the blooming grapevines
my grandmother planted with her fruitful, calloused hands.
from the bullet that grazed my great grandmother’s chest
as she dashed for the borders, her daughter wrapped around her waist.
from the shriveled leather lung of the village boy’s Gaida,
heavy with a hunger for a life beyond tobacco fields.
from the cradle of our old Thracian Land,
with its gold mask draped in glass, displayed for greedy eyes.
from the cave of the gaping Devil’s Throat,
where the stalactites grow and consume the silent void.
from the pulsing blood of tethered generations,
warm like summer rain, rich and sticky like autumn honey.
the promise of our sacred, lonely land, soil drenched
in unquenched tears, humid and muddy with fertility.