By Thanh Dinh

Drifting aloft the madness,
The merger of drunken flames,
A lost boy wondered,
What had he done
For Man to grant him muscle and might
To find light in the bleakness of the ruin.

For the hand that dealt the torture,
Too, doled out the hope,
A lingering essence concealed
By the ashes of fury,
And, by the rain that smudged the picture
Of a perfect life.

Perhaps, it was a dream,
Perhaps, in the wake of the night,
The world should be no more
The bird should fall, the chicken should float,
The lion should cease distress and sing,
To which Mother Nature should too sing,
But the lion his angry purge
And she her swansong.

The night of a thousand mysteries
was a night of a thousand souls
That intertwined, and danced,
And reveled in the desperate strand of hope
That He had left for them
When He faded into oblivion