by: Nina Anin
These saga seeds are from Hades' rivers, no- Yanluo Wang's,
for bleached skin and branded tongue by the passports,
bow tied and wrapped in gold, promising cocoons and contend with forgetfulness
Yes, the patriarchs have planted a temple and lined
the roofs with saga pods, ripe for a dumb supper like monuments
No one stays, not the demons or the joss beggars, this banquet must be silent
electronic cabbages, lithium tomatoes, glass noodles,
Be distracted by the cowboys on the billboard, don't look
at this mess of borders, of junk vessels, but speak
the new dialects to the slashed portraits, and
let the skyscrapers collapse over the grime of the rickshaws,
crushing the red samsui hats of the founders, eroding birthing halls,
building a new world full of F1 drivers
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