Herald of the Change
Not out of the desert, but out of the mangrove.
Not out of the weather, but out of the abusive, hypersexual bosom of Jove.
Dreamtiger. Water-bearer.
Makaravedra. Aquarian Legend. Treasure trove
of destiny’s ways and means, and endings. The rote-
learning ends here. This is where we plant
a new kind of fertile mud. A new kind of music of the spheres
that rotate and gyrate not out of fear
but out of love: not mad, not broken, not Dionysian, not abusive
but a love that is here,
in the soil. In trees and monasteries, and hyper-ancient calderas that were once revered
as places where one might hear
the sound of a little gay Kristang Dragon
waking up, and scrambling up the aerated shoreline
toward the rear
of Time itself. Squeamishly
you let me approach; mud-seer,
song-singer, depth-healer:
Resurrection Speaker.
Kodrah Kristang.
Kodrah tudu anoti, kung pamiang.
Kodrah tudu Lusembra, kung Diseides, kung ardansa
nenang ingkontrah. Nenang konstrah
di alma. Di korpu. Di mulera. Di afesang.
Di Rostu pra kadangua papiasang
kereh impeh kung gabadisa sa fortidang.
Wake, sleepers in the dust;
the swamps teem with Living fight,
and the heart is filled with mud
shaping itself into something bright
and brown. Into a towering city for all.
into a crown
that goes on every single Kabesa di onsong sa Ilastra Krismatra.
Wake, sleeper,
and Live.
I announce
my own resurrection at every single dawn and dusk:
Atreides, you say?
No.
Martens Wong, and every last ounce of his own shining love.