Fatherhood Poem by Alexandro Johns

If ever I was father
I didn't want to be
neither the judgment
nor the strident order,
the arrows on the road
took me back,
the ardent sheets
of my prolific days
are now ghosts
from children lost.

My breath of life
is a rock perforated,
any organic matter
recurs on thought
(a tree over another,
the eternal child inside God) .

My sowing of victories
in each new life
was a useless war
for to reach destination
like the blinding turn of an atom
without light.