Through the veil that we have coloured
with the woven tapestry of our stories,
those that illuminate and those that fail us,
we peer out, as much as the veil allows,
and on the one side is a honed isolation,
billowing around us like a comfortable pillow
that can also, on another day, suffocate us,
and on the other, imaginings of belonging,
soft and sweet and frightening and pure:
what that would look, smell and feel like,
what the sinewy textures of our grounding
would be in the lands that cushion our birth.
We birth: again, and again, we are borne
of a thousand suns and the lives they touch,
of endless moons caressing our shadows
with a hope that cuts right through to bone.
We can crest the mountains, soar like falcons,
or we can sit on grass, watch tiny buds grow,
and no victory is small, that shatters the veil,
and brings me to myself, and all of me to you.
– Tammy Takahashi