While we sing the silly song of soon-adults.
Our pilgrim’s tears of Chai tea
Unknowingly sank us into the sea,
Drowning away the fog of our faults.
We sat on rooftops, gaping at urban glow:
The scope of our journey proved frightening.
The question of the morn was Yes or No,
You all burst Yes! but I still don’t know—
My mind’s scattered by camera-flash lightning.
With porch blankets you covered me clean
Under the mauve morning sky so clear.
And though our barbed wire path seems obscene,
Our brows are sweating sweet kerosene,
And our eyes burn bright for next year.
So now, sweet friends, clasp my worn hand;
Together we’ll glide the tomorrow we sing of,
For there’s rich soil in this moonstruck land;
Let apathy and stillness be damned,
And may the world look up above.
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