Wayne on Foot (Poetry)

10. Dawning Flowers in the Lost Paradise1

Shoot not to slay a lamb in the starry paradise for this neither yours nor mine.

Sprout like leaves of a young flower—waiting for its sun to shine

to cherish the world's dreams and live with peace and harmony,

where truth, freedom, and justice against ghastly borer pests are free.

A felicitous life—the way it should be—seemingly stained with blood and mud

dabbed with filthy and fake cloth made by men coming from the western shores.

To keep body and soul live in the dire straits—not made by the gods they adore —

'tis either to fall on your knees, stand out, fit in, or join the game called "tug of war."

Luxuriant architecture full of gold bars and coins eyed by somebody—not human.

Behind these heavily guarded walls are hoarded jars of formalin, ashes, and bones

secretly kept for years to decompose until the cadaverine smell subsides on its own.

Tell it to the clouds if you witness it or red embers consume you—you're the next—it's done.

The fragrance of perfume sprayed on stiff collars lured to most of my fellow men.

Stenches of twisted truths concealed, they are unknowingly tied with invisible ropes and strings—

Marionettes we call it—dancing on the stage as the puppeteers speak and act on their behalf,

where mouths are zipped with yellow-bills and hallucinated with forked promises.

Until when shall a man be coated with secrecies and sentiments

passed by the people who are in the graves many years ago?

Neither immense power nor banks in this world could ever restore their breath.

Rise up! They may have altered our past, but truth will always prevail as the sun begins to rise.

Do not wait to be outraged by your own ordeals,

just because your body's window can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there.

Dogs bark if they feel unsecured—cry out loud if need be—especially to strangers.

Hear their cries than just listen to the call of your countrymen: they're in pain.

Like this two-thousand-year-old divine teaching: many are called, but only few have chosen.

Break the chains that are locked on the edge of the butchers' knives; melt it together with them.

Unlearn these twisted lessons taught by our ancestors; discover the truth!

Stand up from the oblivion of bed of roses and thorns.

Be like petals of sunflowers, where shine together with the golden beams of the king on the sky,

illuminating the vicinity of a darkened archipelago that lies on the east,

They may be able to trim down every flower who are standing valiantly,

but they can't control the oppressed bees that pollinate flowers from one garden to another.

Rise up! Still go on to the right path where the sun goes. Take it to the sky.

When they blind our eyes, bravely speak to these macabre tyrants;

When our hands are tied, kick them with our feet.

If we fail, always remember: there are dawning flowers ahead in the lost paradise.

© Wayne | February 2021