Fire blooms over the mountains that I loved, when the sun goes down, we watch them glow. We keep the windows closed, sweep every night, still our feet are black with ash. When will the rain come? The neighbors keep viewing their gongs, fingers twitching. If they call, will they answer? But, it is dangerous to summon those who demand blood. They speak of one who wandered off and they took his name from him, made all his friends who called after him sound like barking dogs. What kind of ancestors kill their grandchildren?
Once upon a time, long, long ago, God shut up the sky, too tired of His children calling Him by the wrong name and a foreign queen killing His truth-sayers. Two altars were built. One, they danced all afternoon, gaudy and manic, till they slipped in their own blood. One, drenched with water, he just asked and God answered beyond doubt.
But still we put both altars, just in case. The priest sprinkles holy water and pig skulls still hang by the school gate.
The rain comes. The mountain falls.
The black helicopters that used to chase the New People’s Army now bring rice and stir up the mud in the high school plaza so someone has to run out and redo their laundry.
The nights have been cool, but once the early morning mists rise, the sun beats down and the world feels like it is on fire. I walk outside and the morning heat feels like radiation from a nuclear reactor. But the sun is a nuclear reactor, a fusion reactor, but still feels strong from 93 million miles away.
Fire blooms over the mountains that I loved, when the sun goes down, we watch them glow. We keep the windows closed, sweep every night, still our feet are black with ash. When will the rain come? The neighbors keep viewing their gongs, fingers twitching. If they call, will they answer? But, it is dangerous to summon those who demand blood. They speak of one who wandered off and they took his name from him, made all his friends who called after him sound like barking dogs. What kind of ancestors kill their grandchildren?
Once upon a time, long, long ago, God shut up the sky, too tired of His children calling Him by the wrong name and a foreign queen killing His truth-sayers. Two altars were built. One, they danced all afternoon, gaudy and manic, till they slipped in their own blood. One, drenched with water, he just asked and God answered beyond doubt.
But still we put both altars, just in case. The priest sprinkles holy water and pig skulls still hang by the school gate.
The rain comes. The mountain falls.
The black helicopters that used to chase the New People’s Army now bring rice and stir up the mud in the high school plaza so someone has to run out and redo their laundry.
And I wonder if we’ve learned anything at all.
The nights have been cool, but once the early morning mists rise, the sun beats down and the world feels like it is on fire. I walk outside and the morning heat feels like radiation from a nuclear reactor. But the sun is a nuclear reactor, a fusion reactor, but still feels strong from 93 million miles away.