Ode to My Country
O my country—
I cleave to you through cataclysm and grief,
even as avenues bleed vermilion
with the coagulated ire of the dispossessed.
The atmosphere quivers
with the dirge of the abandoned,
their supplications dissolving
into the ashen ether.
Yet, in the clandestine chamber of my chest,
a prayer still germinates—
fragile, obstinate.
Your rivers, unwearied,
intonate their primordial canticle;
your fields, still fecund,
proffer aureate abundance.
But the firmament, once lucent,
is now barbed with malevolence,
and the throats of the guileless
are muted mid-cry.
Once, benevolence flowered here,
now calcified suspicion
roots itself deep in the soil.
And yet—
if the hand sows fraternity again,
if mercy’s sap ascends,
perhaps a concord can still unfurl.
Let the splintered heart reconverge.
Let compassion accrue
like rain in a desiccated land.
Let faith, austere and indomitable,
illumine the labyrinth toward amity.
Through maelstroms I remain,
through conflagrations I endure—
for even the umbral abyss
concedes to dawn.
Your essence is unyielding,
your anima indestructible.
My country,
through the alchemy of hope
we shall resuscitate your breath.
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