“Fire with fire”, we are black speckled ash
Vowing to not be remnants of vehemence
But rather glorious cinders in our water dance.
Swarming into streets; desperately we amass.
But can Bauhinias bloom from corpses?
No matter how much oil you add? No –
Peppered tongues and disabled into rubber
An “Eye for an eye,” that metallic murmur –
Do not forget. That the frog from the well
Was probably better off blind. Now tell us
Of one golden sun.
Of one blue ocean.
So hey, dance in the in between . . . the untethered tides of our
shimmering green, swaying
the first fisherman to the metropolis we live in.
Unchanging. She stands under skyscrapers to understand.