(inspired by Malia’s poem ‘crack the code’)

the unspoken poems
are the loudest
the ones you don’t utter
the times you don’t bother
symphonies of silence
votes of no confidence
trust marbled with rust
what's become of us?

clouds of pink on the cherry sigh,
sweet, whispering flowers fall and fall,

they lie upon the mossy wall,
clouds falling from a pink-sea sky,


flowers of the wind, confetti, rice,
papery stream like a pressed dry rose,

blossom song, the tireless breezes blow,
bewitching bower of cherry-flower ice.


a stream of melancholy green,
dances through the shades of the trees

the pink blooms sweep the river's breeze,
dry on stones, cherry-petal scenes....

We are all seeds
tiny grains of sand
lost on a desert wind
or so I understand,
on a hot afternoon
under a clear african sky
we blew into existence
God alone knows why

If I had to crawl to get over that hill,
Sun-baked earth is scorching, my resolve still.
Muscles scream protest, a battle of wills,
But the summit beckons, with unseen thrills.

With each difficult inch, a victory was won,
Ignoring the whispers, the race to be done.
Sweat stings my eyes, a temporary plight,
For the vast panorama, bathed in sunlight.

Hands gripping the gravel, a desperate plea,
But the fire within whispers, "You will be free."
And finally, gasping, I crest the rise,
The world laid before me, a glorious prize.
If I had to crawl to get over that hill