Divinations for Dawn

Child, the roads that wind through this country were once
leaf littered footpaths, slithering into a forest of lush greenery
& cricket hymns. & we, ebony skinned kinsmen, settling
beneath the canopies of its gigantic trees. But now child, that
lovely country crackles in the raging flames of a wildfire.
The forest, now almost bereft of inhabitants, stretches barren
& coal black. The road, a boneyard of unmarked Cairns.
Come, sit with us—your brothers-in-angst—at the precipice
of a country that is ruptured but not entirely torn. & let us
mourn over what is lost & left of the forest. What remains of
the whistling language of wind rushing through treetops.
& from the hieroglyphics of our scars—learn what becomes
of a country, after the exorcism of peace; after gruesome
annihilation of love. & once, child, we cantered to the music
of the forest's rhythmic pulsation; basked in the coolness
of tall shady trees. But now, that same forest withers before
the steel teeth of chainsaws. Smoulders beneath a heavy
covering of smoke. Listen closely & you would hear it—the
echo of dane guns plaguing the air. The shrill screams of
startled inhabitants erupting through the mouth of the forest.
See how a country shrinks with the frequency of tragedy.
Come, child, you who is untainted by their airborne rancour.
You who perseveres but bears no hand in their misdeeds.
Come, for on your shoulder rests the Salvation of the forest.
Here, child, a basketful of seeds—the fate of the country
placed in the palm of your hand. & despite the parchedness
of the soil; the ferocious horde of termites that infest it,
sow these seeds into earth's dark bosom. For in the wake of
dawn, dear child, in every spot you have sown the viable
seeds of hope—I promise you the green audacity of a shoot.