Kenneth Wong Labow

In my ear, I hear this calling, a song of angels upon the shores of Eden.

Still you don’t seem too far away, only just out of reach from rigid hands.

While I listen, the fallen whisper to me, and confirm that we alone are right.

The sun goes down in the West without serenade or notice. The clouds have obscured it.

The chains that hold us to this world begin to rust and shatter under shouts and cries.

If only we could have foreseen this treachery.

Yet I bear the scars that prove our indignation, our contempt and ignorance of reality,

My unjust inability to move.

The fear that empowers me in the night returns at dawn to finish the job.

The dark that follows me at flight yields no sunlight to shield us.

Like a barren tree, though in spring still clinging to the last breath of a frostbitten will.

It seems unheard of, unproven, farfetched, the hermit’s company.

And in my ear, I hear this calling, the song of fallen angels out to me.

Silently I watch as the sky is falling, red fires illuminating a charlatan sunrise.

I know this calling will set me free.