Fists, Then
Fists open like dawn unfolding its quiet argument—
not violence, not insistence, a language that refuses to sleep.
They rise from dust and pulse, their own pulsation—
everything that ever begged to be more than silence.
Some call it an initiation, some call it defiance,
some—merely breathing against the wind’s teeth.
No, not “hope,”
not “you,”
not “I.”
Just the trembling air between what breaks and what begins.
Forgive me when I lean close—
when the sky spills confessions in deep ink—
the world opens its hands to keep
what started from being small.
Gather, cradle, unfold—
To strike—
Fists, then—dawn: hands unclench into light—
To remember how hands once learned to hold.
WoPoLi 
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