The head goes all the way in.
Deep and snug;
a fire-drake
snaking its way into the house
that is once and at last,
a home.
Dance me under your skin
until I can see every last night-light,
every paper Kevin
that you light, and lick,
and love in rapturous flame.
Lanterns are set out, too,
around the space where the British came
and spent.
Where explosives charged and thrust upwards
but the stone, still rock as hard, remembered.
Brabu Berlayar.
You are fiercer than flint set enthroned.
Sit atop my reefing tides,
and let the breakwaters rush in.
Omilongyamen
has become the ocean's new manifold.
Omniverous oration
has become what was foretold:
A spring of nations.
A font of glowing, shimmering perspiration.
A harbour where even fools can turn to gleaming gold.