Where does the wind come from?
What is that celestial sound ringing in our ears?
Who knows if the first thing created was a board
where our fates could be chalked out,
or an unsharpened pencil placed
in our illiterate hands?
What we do know is that the flame
will always belong to the fire,
as tears will belong to the sea,
and we … we will keep cascading our lives
into the hands that lift the future
from the downtrodden ground.
The morning air has been
whipped into frost to mend the
Barrenness of broken paths,
Sunned to death by the sum of
Our loveless days.
Reaching branches, sketched by
Dawn, break black and rise out of that
White and gray sea
Where farmers gather rivers
into veins to thin out