The torrential downpour that fell heavy upon us, pervading deep down into our torrid soil, never woke those sleeping peacefully around us. Same as the flood that rose atop our mountains, steeping our spirit in its stern labour and savage torment left not a single mark upon those who spoke in celebration of the day.
For only we the accused stood trial at the behest of celestial judgement. A mortal ingot dropped inside the burning crucible, quickly yielding to its heat! Within that fire were lessons, a teaching through every strike of the hammer.
Gifts feigning as penalty bestowed awareness of a wider world that would have else wise slipped our perception. Forging us!.. Shaping us!.. Through a bold new understanding of who we are. A testimony that we and we alone can bare witness.
© Westley Nash (2019)
A spoken word version of this poem here: