Under this trellised archway,
I wait for my vines to fully grow.
But no growth-spurt will ever be strong enough
To pull me off from my so entrenched roots.
The inclemency of the weather,
The only apparent white clouds, with a hidden grey soul
Are not a menace from my viewpoint.
You see, I am on the brink of the land—
But the other side is not cause for apprehension.
I know this because I know my fate isn’t to get lost in a storm.
After all, vines find a place in the sun.
The beloved bridge is now in my sight.
It is the bridge that reigns the dreams of everyone back home.
There is nothing more precious
And nothing more painful
Than dreaming of that bridge.
But I’d rather be in agony
than for my dreams to become obsolete.
I admit I was once discouraged by the thought
How could I ever be innate to the land beyond it?
How could we ever come together?
When we let our disparities appoint our positions—
The subordinate and the superior.
I’m not asking to be paid homage
Or to be acknowledged as one of your own
Because let’s make it clear,
Who are you to determine who fits your mold?
I do plead that you refrain from trimming my stems
And attempting to set my path on fire.
My passion is so vehement,
Its ardor will make your fire seem like a match
In a pool of embers that will only continue to reignite.
If there is one thing,
in this land of the superior,
A title you’ve appointed to yourself,
Is that those from my land are ten times more gallant.
I may not be an heir,
And my vines might’ve required a little more water than most,
But it was only because we have for so long tolerated strong droughts.
I assure you,
We will all make it to the land beyond this trellised archway.