(Year: 2050, or the year after forgetting was outlawed)

I holographically cough my voice into the heliotropic wind—
a voice folded in obsidian origami, speaking back in ultraviolet tongues.
I say: my cells are no longer haunted archives—no longer bone crypts of anguish.
Pain—once a widow in my blood—
has now evaporated into a mycelium chant looping through my face.

The wind replies with fingers like translucent harp strings:
Little one—Exhale the ashes of your former scaffold.
Let your mitochondria dance in the algae of renewal.
This change? Not a metaphor. This change?
A severed umbilical cord swinging from a tree of data.

In the year 2050—no walls remember the syntax of weeping.
Instead, they erupt with bioluminescent vines—orchids that speak
in the dialects of those once muted.
Sidewalks hum. The air glows like a peeled starfruit.
And my hands? They become weather vanes
catching the jazz of this new wind.

No more scleral jaundice.
No more tongue-barbed taunts from behind iron fences.
No more being Othered by the eye of surveillance.
Love is no longer a question scratched in bathroom stalls—it is
the infrastructure.

In 2050—dreams and cityscapes wear the same exoskin.
Cyborgs and poets break bread beneath the electric fig tree.
Children moonwalk in airless cathedrals.
Girls wear jetpacks made from forgiven wars.
Boys cradle galaxies in their wrists like skipped stones.
We are all dreaming, wide-awake, inside the same neural flame.

Nature and AI? Not lovers. Not rivals.
Symbiotic psalms, whispering through the hollows of each other’s skulls.

I walk the street—no tanks, no fissures, no venom-tongued billboards.
No guilt-shaped clouds. No oil-stained gods.
No hunger curled like a fist inside a child.
No blackouts—except the ecstatic kind, the dance kind.
Even graffiti prays now—its pigment, a sermon.

2050. The wind returns. Says:

This is the same Fatherland y’all dreamed of—
but your dreaming had to die first.
This is the womb after the rupture.
This is the archive after fire learned to sing.