When the seasons die and years fade into nothing.

When all that is left of me is dust and whispered memories.

When faded photographs are the only mementoes of my existence.

My words will bubble still.


Where my feet cannot reach,

Where visas and airfare bar my entry,

Where my tongue cannot curve to form the words of a strange language.

My words will find a way.


So I put them on walls, painting the letters with care.

So I carry them with me, like hot coals in my tender breasts.

So I spray them in the air, praying they do not get trampled.

My words will grow wings.


Let the nations and kingdoms dissolve,

Let the death come and build networks,

Let time come with destruction and pain,

My words are immortal.





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