Read this page quickly.
The edges are already burning,
and it is difficult
to recognize the truth
reduced to a handful of ashes.
The sky is swollen beyond its season.
The earth pulses and turns,
pulses and turns,
each day an act of faith,
each night a search for solace.
For a generation we persevered,
persisted in our duties, pursued our possibilities.
We crafted a journey worthy of our story —
or was it a story to justify our journey?
We trudged through muddy ruts, our feet heavy with yesterday’s footsteps.
We moved past our hesitation with hope on the horizon,
our birthright blooming just beyond that patch of brambles.
Now from the rim of this still rising road,
the sky is open and wide.
But beneath it
the land we hoped to claim
wavers and shifts in an unsteady light.
The path we forged and followed
silently crumbles behind us.
What is the measure of destiny?
