I am dazzled by the knife blade in the sunlight,
my skin cuts easily but the pain is less than I imagined
and as my blood escapes I notice it is less red,
more emerald blue.
I see the history in it, the life and death - it is blood after all -
and as a delta appears on my hand, I resist the urge to lick
or press the wound, waiting for other colours in vain, continuing to
bleed emerald blue.
I hear songs and poetry, see old faces, hear breathing, sense spirits,
noises from a long-distance life, siren wails from wars on streets,
witness splashes of full-colour blood, sepia blood, black blood,
seldom emerald blue.
For this liquid is mine, my protective albumen, my defence, my roots,
an unstoppable slow-flow to mesmerise, to kindle feelings, to remind,
to stimulate a fondness for beginnings, to underline weaknesses, to ease
feeling emerald blue.