12th June 2019, Admiralty, Hong Kong
protests alongside ten thousand youths now called rioters now reduced to statistics

disregarded by the one in power the dowager who holes up in the golden

                    interior of her palace
her yellow curtains her white couture her private prison she dares not step out into

the light which burns her skin to the streets where people whisper murmur pronounce

                    their rage
each sparked each cradling a little hope that the second week of June

2047 will not be as red-sinister as what everyone has just lived through 
so much growing-up is forced upon the young in the seven days of rain thunder

the manmade mist which makes eyes tear and the sun scalding their cheeks their necks

                    their sweat-soaked shirts
stuck on their backs but that’s okay because now they hoist umbrellas enduring

the facemasks and goggles not minding the dirt on their names chanting

                    what is right is right 
until the police lunge at them with long shields and batons and while on the move

John hands over his umbrella and helmet to the also-running reporter
the teargassed cameraman holds fast and films a master shot of humans being human

this stripped-down kindness is the light the heat the verve which moves me moves you

                    moves whoever is watching
this city needs John who grasps Jane’s hand and turns back for Jason and his friends

and behind them two million flames