By tradition, we were born wanderers of the Earth,
engraving what we could in carvéd wood
made mortal,
and yet none before us wandered through fire.
From the dawn, we were more than mortal wood.
We are diamonds forged in the core of humanity’s shadow,
widows of sunshine and dew in which grew those before us. By tradition,
we are here; by ritual,
we had to be. From chaos,
we grew.
The forest fires fueled our misfortune. Fortune—
a forgotten melody sung by our elders who
fanned the flame that devoured all carvéd wood
made mortal. Mortal? Mistaken.
Seedlings rise from the ash. We diamonds are crushed, but
crushed cuts deep.
The defective and anomalous children of tradition
rise
before their time.
Idiosyncrasies synchronize.
Our unorthodoxy clashes in chemical reactions.
We react and redeem. By tradition, we sing. The harmonies
of our antecedents, fragmented
and rearranged.
Our heartbeats, beats of the drum of rebirth. Our carvéd wood made mortal,
metaphysical; even Apollo could not grasp it in perfect poetry
by tradition.