at first the words
were stone in my mouth
silent, heavy, unyielding
you pressed a coin
into my palm—
thirty for betrayal,
or thirty for truth?
now the choice burns:
to open my eyes
and let the imperfect syllables fall,
or to seal them shut
and sip the bitter draught
that keeps the poem flawless
but forever unborn
better, perhaps,
to stumble in speech
than to die with silence
curled like a serpent
around the tongue