Our language of pilgrimage
urges us in a moment
to tear down structures,
to stomp on ancient coins.
Dusting off our boots, we
feel validated by covering
bodies in dense morning fog.
We must offer a final goodbye
to the mound of birds being
reborn outside a schoolyard.
Catching its breath, it just
bubbles like tea. We don’t see
paradise opening its doors.
Yes, silence is green, is revered,
even though time is a trap
like a snake in the grass.