What’s a voice if not heard,

no matter how loud or fierce?

The past is white, the present

fragments in ink and wash,

sending colours spilling,

spreading into the future.

What’s poetry if not fighting

for freedom to clothe in sun

while taking time to glimpse

the life of one newborn star

essential to a winter’s night?

Rage, rage against the dying

of the light, may your eyes

blaze like meteors, gifting

wings to angels ascending.

What’s a voice if not voiced

to promise a brand new day?


Notes: The words underlined, I borrowed from “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas.


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