I wonder if this age is mine,
as I’m waiting for a day in November sky
to be skipped to seventeenth,
because sixteenth is basically a curse.

My dears bring me martabak keju,
pop! the sound of wine cork,
prepare for the holy drink.
I remember Jesus did like using wine
to say something,
either grace in Cana or His own death.
This wine, I do not know which for.

Then we talk about feminism and assholes,
asshole-feminists, not-asshole-feminists.
Dichotomy, dichotomy, group, gang, squad.
Have you read this article?
I have. We have discussion. Too bad some get butthurt.
True, open-for-critics is an illusion.

See, sixteenth is not a lucky date yet it should
or at least it could.
I still have 24 hours,
maybe later noon I will
pick up laundry,
do dishes,
crowd my working table with cables,
hear a lecture about cosmopolitanism of science,
and curse someone for mumbling political bullshit.

I do wish this age is mine, I do hope the sixteenth is always be mine.