Yellow

My mother used to say that
the yellow marks on my face
reflected the sun.
Sometimes she asked me to
sit still on the cold stone
just to prove that point.
I would refuse to see, eat,
for a day or two,
just to prove mine.
I would, instead, run to the river,
orphan but free.

The world stayed locked,
barely watching the colours through
a yellow window
until the day when
in a careless moment of joy
the poetry gave birth to me
under the candle light.

Yellow, ferocious birds escaped into the wild.
Flying away, small parts of my body.

Nobody-could-recognise-me-anymore.
I was new, alone with the sun,
big yellow eyes.

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