Tulip‑sequined wind, night‑shimmying sea,
long bloom of desert sands, and the roar of the spring
festival onto the grass: tell me the mother,
before our history sprouted, should have thrown
herself under the blades to save her child. Yes, tell me
the father should have given to God the Father
his own life, not his son's. Tell me, if all,
man, woman, child, had thrown their lives away
rather than take that dumb, furred sacrifice
still squeaking its lives out under our knives
would all our history have borne different fruits?
We planted no orchard here next to City Hall
but the walls still shake. What are we ploughing under
when we do that prime time shimmy?
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