There is a wailing in the distance.
A pulsating in the brain, a choke-hold on the throat.
A kaleidoscope of molten thoughts tumble past.
Trickling out through the talons.
Our life force melting, gushing through our grasp –
We cannot hold on to the home where we grew up.
Is this why snow’s flakes dissipate without caution,
Is the beautiful not engineered to last?
The city trains may sheen across the city sights,
But why must they carnage through our countryside.
There is no longer a canopy to shade our wingspan.
No tree trunk legs to stand upon.
Industrial landscapes, never need to look down.
The wailing comes quicker,
At once the the Old Village, became the New Town.
Soon to coax life from our hallowed ground.
They want to take the core of our dreamland,
Grind our cries of grief to grains of sand.
Ancient battles, above which we grew,
Soon to be exhumed.
Were those fights lost, and is ours too?
Suffocating from the roots beneath us
We cannot hold on to the home where we grew up.