above the mountain of ashes

the rose will rise triumphant, moon-like;

the silence of the meek will pierce the walls of fortresses,

star-shaped hands

will reach for the silver butterflies;

waves after waves of liquid light

will peel from the bodies of dead heroes

and become rivers of gold;

obsessive thoughts in black bouquets

and haunting images of cruelty

will fade into the fragrant evenings…

beware of those who claim

to hold the keys to the iron gates -

there are no answers yet,

just unformed questions

- blind, shape-shifting strings of words

pretending to grow wings and

crumbling in the burning sand soon after…