sometimes I think was made
not born, I emerged –
a sculpture carved from generations
of revolutionaries and martyrs
from a history of blood into a world
painted in the last rays of sunset

spun into being,
was my skin always stone?
or did it harden when I was ******
into the fray?

did I slice my way out into this life,
sharp claws already a part of me?
or did I scramble to arm myself
when I realized I had no choice but to fight?

my mother, my creator
she had a purpose, a goal
she built me from scratch –
the first and only of the batch

her masterpiece, treasured
each action measured
by its worth, weighed –
never allowed to be afraid

but here is the secret, here is the trick,
she made a mistake –
golems are supposed to obey,
not to want
and want
and want

and G–d do I want