Streaming down slow silvery skin
Caught up in currents of foreign affairs
The leaves on which news is printed
Circling back as recycled pieces
Of unlearnt history lessons a cycle of
Madness, sadness grown into our tree roots,
Are the human race’s tragedies so inescapable
As to permeate the photosynthesized
Oxygen that we breathe,
Suffocated by our own disasters?
No. Despair does not grow into the
Blades of grass that sprout between our barefoot toes.
We must not imagine the ghosts of our
Sorrows living in our lungs lest we hyperventilate,
Imagining a false loss before the match begins.
There is opportunity for growth, for buds in a burnt barrel
Like invasive wildflowers, we must rush to lay down our roots of hope
In the most daunting of places.
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