on why people shouldn't challenge the skyrose garden on their own soil; as a challenge to write a sound-based poem
caught in a third-floor elective classroom.
21/03/2022. total words: 168

Overtop the arching cliff, the sweet splashing of the falls,
Can't you hear the thrumming song in the silence it fills?
Rustling run the winds in the sorrows they deliver,
The rose-heart's dew drops like shivering teardrops; silver.

The floorboards they creak when you scamper up from the creek,
Spray the wool-woven rugs with water in your heart as sweetly deep.
Wax drips from candles as the lights, within their lanterns, they flicker,
It's shallow, until we call the need for diving or for drowning, our river.

Thumping, thumping, to the beat of a snare-bass drum,
The light that breaks through the canopy: is that the sun?
Clap our rhyme and say it true: dawn-light, dawn-bright-
Tell me, what was the rainbow-colour of the moon last night?

Pounce upon the snake, as it hisses and it slithers,
Sneak up upon the poison-sirens and tell me how it blisters.
Valley lilies chime so distant and protective like singing bells,
Here by the stream-shore where the rose-fish sing our prayers.