After my child woke up to mountains
turned into poisoned orange fields.
And towers howling empty through
the skeletons of proud and fearful
monsters of the Next Big Racket:

I sat down and knew things will
never be the same again
no matter how much I ate,
or whatever I wore, or where I lived.
We have died a long time ago.

Why I am still here with you is
a question only I can answer.
Everyone else has lost
after the successive attacks on
places where we used to speak freely.

Tomorrow, they say our hearing will no longer
be the same and that our children
will no longer remember us. I would have loved
to sharpen you another blade or shine another
weapon for your next trip, but there is a wider net
that has stolen my hands and the lamps
which I use to work through the Night.

I know you struggle every day and we barely
remember each other's faces, doing as we are told.
I spend time sitting down with my wounds, some of which
you blew down on me when you were too high.

One day or day one, you would say when sober.
Others remind us gently still, we were made for this.

Through all this muddy waters and chaotic mix of dung,
blood and sweat. We are lotus flowers, stardust.

In another story, a grown-up has learned to slow dance
with his lover as the world falls apart around them.