In the end, we always had to move
before the rains came;
the blows of needless abuse, hailstorm trauma —
the things that drove one insane.
When we couldn't move, the world did:
asking us to change the game;
did we oblige?
You tell me.
You still carry the name
of one who has never moved.
One who has never stayed the same.
The blows of heedless dispute, hurricane auras —
in spite of all that, you remained.
When you couldn't move, the world did:
begging you not to turn tune into refrain;
did you oblige?
You are me.
We are still growing our mane,
our primary way of becoming
something that transforms the same.
The rows of headless, heartless furors —
the courage to never disdain
those who couldn't move, and who the world did
a tremendous shame;
will you oblige?
Always.
Now, and always, we know the way.