Between the welkin and the well,
a thousand points of radiance:
Avalokiteśvara's hands
reaching out to America.
Under a volcano's shadow,
before a trembling ocean,
luxurious detonations
herald the spirit of mercy.
Each bomb-blast is an open hand
in the mudra of compassion;
their fingers smell like burning boats
and fennel, and fresh cut daisies.
Embers coruscate to the Earth
calling on it to bear witness:
red is for blood, blue is for blood,
white is for the whites of their eyes.
Clouds of smoky white dissipate,
revealing ordinary stars:
fractured across the endless sky,
Pandora's hope in dazzling dots.