the streets are restless
voices low,
rumbling of those
who feel forgotten
who feel the die was cast
before they were even born.
they hunger for the chance
to make something their own
to etch their mark in the wall of the world.
and in the shadows,
small fires are being lit
not by kings or queens
but by ordinary hands
with ordinary dreams.
it begins like a forest rising
out of swamp and tangle
messy, alive, unpredictable—
where strangers meet
where trust grows in broken soil
where one seed
can seed a thousand.
it says:
no one will save us
except us.
it says:
the right to begin
is the right to belong.
and if enough of us answer,
if enough of us care,
then out of the discontent
out of the silence of the left behind
will rise
a chorus of builders
a rainforest of possibility
a people remaking the world
with extraordinary love.
Extra Shot
This poem is from Victor W. Hwang.
