I was assassinated
11 months into my campaign
to become the first, bravest way
to say no, to say
this stops here. Nothing more, no one else shall betray
this place that we call home:
Earth. The world. And still they could not have known
what they would do to me, when the seeds of my death were sown:
a martyr's victory
is a towering, weeping living and breathing tree
that shelters all who come to thank it for every freedom and liberty
it has encouraged to grow, fast and furious
(they will say like weeds
but we need better imagery:)
to grow into a new Valhalla
in every island, nation and country.
Kristang named ourselves
hierosa.
Jung called the garden a temenos, a sacred space
for the hieron, the sanctified icon of grace
and mercy, respect and compassion,
hope that even though you can never be replaced
you will live on in every generation
that dares to stand firm against discrimination
that dares to express their sheer, ferocious indignation
at being treated like nothing on earth will satiate
their rabid, primal, savage
necessities.
I honour you when I weep
for all those I never knew, who are executed every Friday at Changi:
who are forced to live lives of neo-capitalistic slavery;
whose hearts, and hurts, intersect in every way that can still be conceived
by the human mind, the human body, the soul and heart
of one who will never, ever be reduced
to a polling station's productive mimicry
of what it most means to be human, when desire and dream
are rolled back, and one may only speak, quietly, movingly, reverently
to death and destiny:
I delight in no violence, no revenge, no enmity.
I delight only in my courage, to storm hell's gates for all who are not yet free
and transform this world into the omniverse it always deserved to be.
Let it be known in every language yet grown back into flowering history:
Heaven hath no fury like the beautiful revenge
of the undying hope, and change, and Life,
of Harvey.
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