Leaves cascade from the oak, 

to which my parents swore, 

stems diseased 

by my sins?

I trace the veins anyway, 

hoping they will lead me 

to their quiet, promised land.

It lies within 

a barren forest. 

where whispers linger,

taunting as they pray for me. 

I am lost,

trying to find my breath.

I suffocate

 just enough

to recite falsehoods,     

in unison with

the seasoned.

When spring comes, 

I gather scattered words 

watered by familial oaths,      

as I run towards faultless mountains      

where the whispers warned

milk is fermenting

and honey is crystallized.