Wandering Jew

Counting the digits,
of your hand, you forget,
how many fathers you have.

Was it not very odd that
truth exists in the crying eyes
of a child whose mother
had abruptly disappeared?

It always hurts, when
realization comes. A little
sprig of cowlick, reminds you of
timelessness. You can move-

in any direction. You want to
go. That will need a third eye.