The story that is us, is the story
of delicate tendrils stretching through red soil.
The gods foretold its future,
‘cursed is the seed left un-watered
beneath the haze of golden rays.
For though it carries the future,
it shall wither like
the cracks on the heels of a sojourner in the desert.
The story that is us, is a story
of angry tears beating down viciously on a smile.
The gods declare
it is a rainbow
hope in the midst
of opposing yet interlinked natural events.
Tomorrow shall yet come,
as surely as the tortoise has a home in its shell.
The story that is us, is a story
of shoots reaching out to golden rays
beckoning for a hug.
Chanting ‘I know not when nor how
but one day I shall spread my branches high to the heavens
and my roots down to squash hades.
The gods are bemused,
for the story that is us
is not theirs to write but for the future to unravel.
