Let Fate, with arrowed aim, open her notebook
on our two blank pages facing.
As she begins to scribe us in,
let her forget all centuries lessons,
for ours is not a fable penned
for the wizening of children.
It is a brazen thing, a spear shooting upwards to
the empty waiting clouds.
Let her not flit about the volumes of our past for tilt of future,
for there lies nothing that came to anything.
Have her set them aside unopened,
for what we need, we will remember.
She should not care for where our lives began,
for we were born into cities, mere dots on paper maps,
built by other men.
Fold all charts away and tuck them into drawers,
we have no need for careful lines, plotted by strangers.
For we are not for these straight spheres
where life is scribed in slanted even hand.
We are not our named brown lands
or the lettered seas that split them,
or even the trammelled mountains
streaking the sky with blaring flags atop.
We are symbols carved on rocks, in deserts long forgotten
and never trodden anymore.
We are indigenous abandon,
two lost secrets tethered to the very weather.
We need not heed the tick, the steady tock of chiming time -
let the hands fall from its face, revealing nothing underneath.
Slip minutes through the floorboards, hurl rocks and shatter the weeks.
Let, instead, uncalculated, the heartbeat of youth
throb in our ears forever.
Let her, our Fate of diamond stare, remember this
as she rests her chin on delicate wrist
and conjures us up our future brave.
For we are life intercepted by the Gods -
who will carry us straight, high and away
and spread before us the galaxy
from which all our atoms exploded once,
and remind us of our wonder.
