I run around the streets, barking, in hollow, crushing defeat
your name—as if it will make the rains come faster,
or ever. Instead sprout the flames
of your prejudice and disdain—
a volcano erupts somewhere in my heart
every time you refuse to deign to recognise
the streaming passions that cascade down my waters, the trains
and railroads of death and despair. The hate
that you showed no one, and everyone,
when you took this world in your hands, and crushed it, straining
against what Atlas and Prometheus and Nila Utama and Mount Meru itself
had long fought against, valiantly and in the darkness of great
and growing vengeance. Of revenge. Of the wrong way to play
the songs, the old music. I want it. I cry out for it.
I want the void to go away.
I want the dead to return.
I want the abuses to fade.
I want you to stand trial against yourself, and explain
why you don’t deserve to die.
Why you deserve to write your name in the letters of the Unown, and revive
who you were, before the towers fell, and everything broke apart and died.
Who you are, in other universes made of better men and filled with the rights
of everyone to build bridges and towers that reach for a better kind of sky.
I want you to explain yourself.
I want you to stop trying to survive
and let it all slide away.
Somewhere, on the other side of a globe,
a candle is flickering,
still yearning for you to, just once,
say my fucking name.