Upon this iron land, upon this crimson tide,
I am the dragonfly that flies, the water-strider that glides.
My wings unfold to the sun, joyful is the day wide,
Here’s warmth, and insouciance, expanse, and flight.
Beneath these iron lands, and beneath these crimson seas
My shadow glides and flies—with the dead she speaks.
They share with her bullets, and noose, and tears, and pleas:
“Look, touch, embrace, and remember,” they whisper, “repeat, and repeat indeed.”
2025.10.06