another red calendar day

The sky above the keep is iron gray,

No stars, no stripes, no manufactured spark.

While distant cities toast their founding day,

We watch the local hills dissolve to dark.

They burn their millions in a frantic show,

To prove a freedom built on borrowed ground.

But sandstone walls don’t care for who is king,

And severed roots make no explosive sound.

We press the bitter stamp of liquorice black

— A heavy coin to hold against the tongue.

It tastes of soil, of winters coming back,

Of old rebellions that were never sung.

So let them light the fuse and clear the stage,

And praise vast empires that are bound to break.

Out here, we measure freedom by their age

Of stone that stays awake for its own sake.

🛤️