Work Text:
the hearth of the earth
the hope of the womb
from candlelit birth to twilight tomb
the inherent worth
of each life in bloom
for memories of mirth does love make room
the song of sigh swirled
the lines of love’s weight
hope etched and pearled in the living and late
with small fingers curled
around their new slate
each infant is furled in freedom and fate
and simply because you were born in this world
you there, my love, are already great
---
fire flashes before his eye-
lids, red rivers running, veins
alit – crossing, throbbing,
burned by the blaze, heathens
seizing souls hewn in heat;
terror branding bodies,
nightmares mauling brains,
the mind’s eye seeks the prize
of wreaking revenge with pain;
the past meets the purge –
– the boy begins to stir –
the dead shriek their dirge –
– his cries slip out in slurs –
the bloodbath starts to blur –
– he now can hear her words –
“Eren, Eren –”
– reality returns.
---
“fire lilies here, chrysanthemums there,
let’s trample all these flowers planted everywhere!”
the lilt of their laughter echoed down the street;
soon came the scolding for flowers flattened under feet.
the garrison guards watching smirked and snorted
into their rum-cups, until a child retorted,
“what are you doing, drinking draught on our dime,
when those beasts can break through at any damn time?”
“watch your mouth, kid,” warned the watchguard with rank.
the child stood gaping at the others who drank.
he would have done more than stare dumbfounded,
but at that moment the town bells resounded.
he turned on his heel and made for the main street,
scrambled on stacked boxes so he was tall enough to greet
the heroes whose ranks he vowed to join
when he was no longer a helpless young boy.
---
each night they dined, one family of four,
the mother and father with son and daughter.
they wholly believed they were nothing more different
than the cows and chickens which they slaughtered
and ate.
(how funny, thought fate)
---
the thump of the fist, curled just so,
and the arm, over chest juxtaposed,
form the salute of dedication and sacrifice:
more an omen to die
than an oath to save lives
---
upwards the gate rose, and inward the soldiers spilled,
their uniforms spattered in blood of comrades killed.
one of the scouts caught the eager child gawking
and turned quickly from that innocence mocking
the horror of war and the reality of freedom
so frustratingly foreign to this ignorant kingdom –
but not for the mother sinking, grieving
after learning her daughter is no longer breathing
but chewed to sinews in the belly of a beast
without having made a difference in the least.
today the boy received this reminder:
coming home alone is the curse of the survivor.
---
the dew of morning remembrance
clings to his eyelashes.
his cheeks are baptized in rage.
he is ashamed to be shaken in faith
and tells her to forget that she ever saw him crying.
(as he tries to forget the howls of their mother dying)
but the memories persist –
the egg-crack snap of white teeth on slick skull,
the gruesome glimmer of sunshine on bloodshed,
the carnal collision of bodies beyond count,
the demonic indifference of titans tasting red
– and he is ashamed
to be the one surviving.
---
“what a waste of our hard-earned wages,
to send our soldiers on suicidal rages!
useless, foolish, serving none of our needs,
they dedicate their lives just to become titan feed!”
trembling in fury, the child aimed a swift kick
at his object of anger, accusing, “you prick!
you live your life caged like cattle,
protected from the beasts they battle
to prepare for the day titans puncture the wall,
when your pretense of peace will finally fall.”
“insolent boy!” the adult swung and spat,
the impact sending the boy straight on his back.
before he could retaliate, his sister dragged him off-site;
he’d rather die in a fight than twist heel in flight.
when assailants and crowds were far from approach,
she flung him in an alley in non-verbal reproach.
try as she did to knock sense into her brother,
she would leave the lecturing solely to their mother.
---
in the silence of supper as silver scraped bowls,
mikasa studied her untouched dinner rolls.
deciding she could keep quiet no more,
“eren wishes to join the survey corps.”
“mikasa!” – that secret he had asked her to keep! –
but his frustration faltered seeing mother about to weep.
she surged from her seat and swept to her son to cry,
“do you understand that to join them is to die?”
“i do!” he retorted, to which his father replied,
“then why do you wish to venture outside?”
“i want to see the ocean, where the world meets the sky;
i will live in life’s reality, not these pacifistic lies.
and without new recruits, none can carry on the slain;
the lives of our soldiers would be sacrificed in vain!”
---
“dedicate your hearts
and surrender your lives!”
she never made that oath
except in her last goodbye:
crushed under cobble, at the hands of the beast,
she begged her children to leave her behind,
and cried for them to move on, survive –
not merely mother’s duty in the least.
but no one will grant her honor and decor.
such is the thankless art
of mothers and victims of war.
(besides her life, she had lost one thing more:
her son’s heart to the sirens of the survey corps)
---
mother fought with her panic and failed to find words.
she turned to her husband, hoping he could deter
her son from sacrifice, but he already gave up.
“carla, his mind is made up.
nothing can sway the spirit of our son,
and certainly scolding will only make him run.”
then to his son he addressed: “once i return
from this business trip, i promise you’ll learn
the secrets of the basement.” he held up the key
hung round his neck, hidden under layers ominously.
he gave his goodbyes and started his trek
he’d be back in three day’s time, no less.
---
two decades prior, in another life,
he kneeled at the bedside of his first wife.
his eyes brimmed in joy
as he held (the potential of) his first baby boy.
as their son grew old, lullabies of conspiracies they told
to raise him in their manifesto.
they made him their spy.
their hearts swelled in pride until they broke
when their son in ease turned them in to authorities,
knowing every “i love you” had been a lie.
his own blood’s betrayal finally brought this contrition:
i only loved my son
for what he could do for my mission.
exiled from shame, he built a new life
with his second son and second wife.
he tried to protect them from his mistakes of the past,
but watching his son wield that terrible knife,
his heart broke again - there was no going back;
his son was fated to burn the same track.
(but through him his mission would finish at last)
---
the fire of his dreams passes in a reverie.
the fire of sunset burns trees and river reeds.
he remembers nothing of the lives that have passed,
nor how long it’s been since his eyes opened last.
in a sudden wind, the burning lilies shiver –
for something lost his lips quiver –
she nuzzled his face when he was a babe,
pressed her lips to his wounds when he got a scrape.
she ruffled his hair when he’d bring home a prize,
and tug on his ear when she knew he had lied.
she scolded him gently for the trouble he’d make
and yelled at him fiercely if his life was at stake.
his passion for freedom and obstinate will
at once touched her heart and made her mind ill.
she loved him since birth; she knew her son well;
the inevitable future she long could foretell –
but not to the extent of what it became;
as her blood became morning rain,
his heart twisted, losing innocence to pain.
his eyes, all that remained of his mother,
witnessed what would change him forever –
---
in seven hundred forty-three
was the founding of lies and paradis;
then the year eight hundred forty-five
brought the hand of hell to reap their lives.
these titan beasts for their lives little cared;
eren’s mother joined the countless unspared.
she only wished for him a life of love and joy,
but her gruesome death ruined her baby boy.
to the world’s dismay, tragedy threw gas to his fire
and in vengeance of that day many lives will expire.
Eyes meant for love and mother’s warm light
instead with hatred in Eren burn bright
---
with small fingers curled
around their new slate
each infant is furled in freedom and fate
the song of sigh swirled
the lines of love’s weight
hope etched and pearled in the living and late
the inherent worth
of each life in bloom
for memories of mirth does love make room
the hearth of the earth
the hope of the womb
from candlelit birth to twilight tomb
swaddled in stars, riding the galaxy’s girth,
by the fire of love may your rage be consumed