In my nineties, my friends are sorry for my losses. They say you can see the pain in his face. In necrosis states, do cells cry for each other? To suffer is to be human, but the pull of wisdom can rise above battalions of scree that tumble on living slopes. My eyes are still oceans. They have always been still. I am grateful for knowledge and its transient relief. I scoop up surroundings. I love organelles and waters. The most basic of fish all bundled like planets. Counting these cells is a never-ending job. The fish in plants, tame and untame, sizzle like circuits, their anodes and cathodes are God’s cells. I see near-empty rooms; cells huddled like falcons in the cold, the birds working on hunts, free from prison. My flesh runs away from secret cells, and actions plotting to kill the innocent. Love is not always blind. Today he looks younger they say, but it’s an accumulation of peace that runs through my inner self. The renewal of cells is a flame-coloured flower.
