Blood steeps like tea leaves,

A hibiscus blooming through water,

Diluted but tasting metallic,

Not sweet or safe,

But clear enough for the brave.

The ghosts flow through our water,

Our breeze, our histories.

The dead tell tales to the living,

yet the living do not always choose to listen.

Many prefer silence,

Cold, buffeting death,

Is an inescapable wind.

Ignorance is chosen,

Because fear is comfortable,

Compared to the restless dead.

Yet, remembered living is a tie,

A knot that binds us to this place.

We like to share our death.

If you ask the breeze,

Your cup of tea,

A history tome,

We might answer.

Even the dead tell stories.