Bloodlined

They gave me a name wrapped in silk,
wrote prayers in a tongue I barely spoke,
burned incense I did not understand,
and told me to bow to the ghosts of men
who died before I was born.
I wore the weight of a dragon's shadow
while dreaming in a language not mine—
and my blood is pure.

I tore the name from my mouth,
spat out the bitter tea of exile,
and painted my voice in asphalt and neon.
I learned to laugh like the boys on TV,
built my house from borrowed slang and second chances,
and in that rebellion, I found my shape—
but my blood is pure.

Years passed like monsoons through empty fields.
I carved a flag from my father's grief and a son’s joy,
sang lullabies that never belonged to any country.
Yet at night, I still reached for
the ghost of a homeland I never truly held.
A question echoed in the marrow of my bones—
If my blood were pure.

Now I hold both truths like rivers in my palm
my father’s war, a son’s freedom,
the silence of old temples, the hum of city trains.
I am the prayer and the protest,
the lotus and the concrete.
And in this ache, I stand whole—
so my blood is pure.

Adrift

I sat with them, the ones who fled,
whose silence was carved by salt and dusk,
whose eyes held jungles never named,
and spoke of boats
small paper skins with candles cupped
like hearts that dared to glow
on waters black with memory.

These lanterns, I told them, drift
not just on rivers, but between
what burns and what sinks.

The flame will eat the boat
unless the sea does first
but whether fire or flood,
the boat is gone.

The past dissolves regardless.

Yet they hold the edge of the boat
fingerbones tight with fear and duty.

Not ready to let go,
not ready to lose the ache
that told them who they were.

And I, the child of their ache,
wait in the hush after war
for a permission never spoken.

The question is not the death of the boat.
That’s certain.

But will they choose
to place it in the water,
to watch it drift beyond
the lantern's last breath,
the wound’s last word?
Or keep it locked on land, smoldering.

They say nothing.
Only sip tea grown in lands
they no longer claim.

Their silence folds time
like the hands that once built
the raft, the rope, the hidden path
to the night of departure.

If they let it go
if the boat drifts out,
flickering with the mercy of release
perhaps we too,
the tethered children,
might find a wind
not made of exile.

But until then,
we wear their stories like erosion,
uncertain whether we are drowning
or burning,
or both.

So I light my own lantern,
and wait for theirs to touch the tide.

And for the greatest of all goods
peace, breath, becoming
I ask them softly:
let it go.

Let the boat go.

Not because it deserves to vanish,
but because we deserve to live.