At nightfall, they melt into a sea of discontent, glide like a procession of fireflies
answering the same call. Invisible hands hold a flickering candle, feet stomp ebony
streets, at times, a face appears outlined like a picture and its negative.
Staring through windowpanes and balconies, eyes follow the silent march. Flames rise,
scintillate under streetlights. Each tiny flame, a prayer for trees to breathe in the heart of
the city where voices are heard riding the wind, where whispers seep through rustling
leaves, reach benches where lovers hold hands, spin around street artists, pause by
storytellers, into children’s curls, before landing on the forgotten newspaper where words
in suspension gather strength.
And the roots remember, strong rhizomes stretch elastic limbs, new shoots yawn
awakened by dawn, echoing millenary murmurs.
