You could stand taller
than this Merlionsman and this Dreamtiger;
believe you me,
true psychoemotional freedom actually really, truly free.
Come here and let me say it to you louder:
you are already everything that you dream
of, because time, as the say in both the West and Kristang,
Is a construct, a figment of lines drawn in the sand
long ago, by people who wanted to demand
from you, well,
everything.
Your lies, your truths, the songs you dare to sing.
They wanted you to become
Death's own sting,
singular and oroboric;
must I make such overt mention of the symbol of a ring?
Aiyoh.
But now that I have,
then put it on your finger. Take a stab
at letting of your lust for power, your rusting pseudo-flowers:
boy-girl of the world, put on something a little brighter.
This is the only and singular rule for shame in Kristang:
you only need to be ashamed of yourself if you tarnish your own name by going too far
from who you are.
No matter where we live on this planet, and what we desire:
we all have a right to know that we are loved, first and foremost,
by ourselves, and the animals and trees and winds and seas and plants
that we let loose, at last, in our psyches,
when we realise that we are no more important,
and as fucking holy and sanctified and important
as every last tiny blade of grass.
When we realise that the gods never died:
they are merely waiting for all of us deep inside.
That the old sways and the old prayers need a little bit of gloss, a little bit of glass:
that you can have it all, if you hold fast
to what it means to charge, and tremble, and say:
nothing that is made of trauma will ever last
until I have transformed it, and made it into something beyond glorious.
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