This is apparently published in some independent poetry magazine in Germany, I really have no idea...
I saw upon looking, and asking to see,
the fountains of home; those old cracking baths.
They smelled of stagnant rock pools from the days
when you and I, Sister, together went
crabbing, and found not more than dried out shells.
We knew then how water yellows and still:
We clambered over rocks until the tide
receded, like our father's hair, like that
of his father; like mine, revealing skin.
Now, your child, Sister, what will he become?
Will he go crabbing in vain, stagnant pools?
Will he escape our dulled metropolis?
Running into the tide at it's apex,
Adding his mass and providing the weight,
Refreshing the pools, hydrating white shells;
Turning calcium, flesh,
filling the fountains
of our old town.
Will his hair
recede?
Like mine,
Like mine,
Will it grow?
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