i.
Our songs will not be lost.
That euphoric declaration of twenty twenty,
a new decade set to bear new wings,
painted on walls of grand introspection.
Yet, the songs were going to peel off.
At the wake of the decade’s first quarter,
a pandemic flew in like unidentified flying objects,
with an airplane too big for the landing field.
ii.
You know how it looks, don’t you?
That invisible crown walking like a king,
snuffing lives, halting man, closing earth,
like a whirlwind high up to the heavens.
You see, it craves ignorance like lust,
Seeking victims of the sin of hindsight.
Go ahead and be clothed in the veil of precautions
and the invisible crown will fly around without perching on your head.
iii.
Man up, woman up;
there is a weak spot in everything, lying aloof.
Puncture those balloons of paleness
and let them hiss aimlessly out of your space.
iv.
Ashes have gone round.
Some blown into the air, like blinding dust;
some bottled in domestic columbaria;
some stuck, like glue, under earth’s feet.
It’s time for a dive out of these ashes.
v.
Let the arms gather, visible assemblies on the battle line.
Let the armies be adjured into action.
Let the swords take out all the jaundiced emotions that heap ashes beneath your feet.
The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere.
The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere.
vi.
Our songs will not be lost.
With fright thrown into the furnace,
with ignorance fleeing from us,
with earth healing beyond the ashes,
our songs will not be lost.
