Trek

Waking up one day, people see
they no longer need inessential cover.
They see an umbrella in their hand for
their trek to the distant sky. Their pulled out wisdom teeth
grow back, and they awake in pain.

The hardware store refuses to offer iron, but only eye masks.
The bathroom refuses to offer foam, but only towels.
The kitchen refuses to offer knives, but only plastic wrap.
The scripture refuses to offer prayer, but only surgical masks.
The flag refuses to offer crest, but only the imagery of flower.
In aubergine melancholy, a kind of flower that refuses to bleed
but blossoms at will against the command of the seasons.

They move light from carrying no possessions.
They act gently from nursing a strong will.
Raised to the sky, their arms turn into trees
sprouting olive green leaves.
Abstract sculptures, plain as
a pair of white sports shoes, light as
a school bag and enduring,
like a beech wood chair does, the kind of freedom
of roses growing through rugged iron fences.

To endure in freedom. To move forward
while enduring. To remain gentle
before the caustic. To stay calm
in the state of shock. To connect in
independence. There is no metaphor
in the final moment. The truth is blazing
nakedly and the echinaceas are rolling in flame.
In the smoke, they forget their bare feet
as they see their faces more clearly than ever.
The music of death cannot stop them.
No trial can strike down
their small and fragile umbrellas.
They are trekking into the depth of the sky
without thinking too much.

All shackles have lost their weight.
Conquering all memories, and to which all birds shriek and fly,
as we have never seen before,
an enormous cloud.