It is the song the ash sings
in the great act of remembering
its form, the fat hope with which
I often wonder
what breath stills the ripple when
our soiled dreams carpeting the old town
an inverted world of mirage and mosaic
and the vulnerable dark of shadow.
children who have been taught to hide
soar like nothing remains but the sliver
of their wailing, unstoppered laughter
escaping the grey wind.
Words by @chanceyilla