"Heritage"

With the Sun plainly in my shirt,
only the head still in shadow
but abound to be hotten
like the belly, and the chest.
To be cooked.
Godamned heat,
like thorns in the skin.
Blindly.
And somebody asks me,
what for, the keeping of this suffering?
I answer that I don´t know
when my cold room, delightful,
will be ready.
So I stand against these everything,
protecting it from assaults,
until the work´s done.