“A yellow ball dimmed white?” 

 

In the day she sleeps peacefully, under the sweet sour serenade of the sun. And although she is asleep she is awake, her senses acutely aware of silent sounds and the cacophonic contours and the touch of Truth. Still she never stirs. Only when the black mystery of night pours in, does she open her eyes. She whispers a cricket’s breeze; she clucks a nightjar’s song. 

 

“Why is she cold from the fire?”

​

***

​

 

“This is a fight for justice!”

 

It was correct, like the golden eagle’s soft feather brushing against the petal-soft air; like my mother’s happy tear sliding down my pale gold hair.

 

Then it became wrong before the bird lifted its tired head; before the teardrop could wait. And the drugged Afghan poppy dropped dead.

 

 

***

​

“This is a cause for unity!”

 

It was correct, like this Burmese cat’s dark paw resting reassuringly in mine; like my father’s pragmatic passion lighting up my heart’s skyline.

 

Then it became wrong when they said the colour of the cat’s fur was too black; when the elephants and refugees crashed and cracked. And Taingyintha the Disney princess cried for all that she lacked.

​

***

​

 

“This is a game-changer!”

 

It was correct, like the electric vehicles gleefully gliding on green; like my brother’s green buildings delicately designed by hand on screen.

 

Then it became wrong after one continent’s battery began to glow red while others glared great; after the computer melted under the heat of the climate. And the economy's breath was sad at death.

​

***

​

 

She seems so close. Perhaps even more so because she is so far. Out of this planet. But too close or too far, she can see us all—like a mother knowing each of her seven children’s paradoxical behaviour and still trying to bring them together. 

​

“Do you see them? Do you see her?”

 

Yes, I can, for she is shining with the light of the yellow; with the light of the fire.