I put you up in my arms; the room is dark the open window breathes the western sun of so many afternoons, pouring onto your little face, like golden gloves bathing you "is there more warmth than when I hold you onto my sternum- when you suckle away for hours, and I rub your lips of frothing saliva. the light, your father- let you run to the paramount sky. illuminated torches even light the darkest of caves, let you run to a man toiling in a drenched shirt collar, expended eyes. don't fight, to reside in this cradle, darkness like the depths of my womb, hold you up- to the sun, and when the last of daylight sets, on the deserted streets handing out unread, unfelt epitaphs to the undead elapsed, all the warmth at the depths of my cradle; may you be a parent in search of a cradle for your child.