Anwyn Li

Clouds run like racers, destinations away
Forgetting their people on tired brown soil
The sun bakes us into broken clay
A kiln of tiring toil, toil, toil

We’ve forgotten how to breathe
Reaching for the breeze of seas
Drape it on our face like fairies do to wreathes
But gift that veil, holy grail, to celestial bodies—
Stars who condemned us to a dusty lone earth—
Clasp your hands and cry for a speckle of mirth

To be a person and to be people
Means scorching our soul for a trace of treacle.