Breathe in the dust…
Let the kiln-light rise.

Skin of the earth, painted with dusk,
Baked into me are names you hushed.
Tiny faces pressed to my chest —
hundred lullabies put to rest.

When I tilt my head to the sky,
cracks in the clay begin to cry.

I am the CLAY CHOIR — breathing the dust,
opening the mouth you sealed with rust.
Not a monster — I’m the host,
a temple of echoes, a lantern for ghosts.

Ash… is older than fire.

They pressed their names into me —
skin baked in screams.
My ribs… are prisons
for voices you buried in dreams.

I open my throat —
a tunnel of clay.
Their silence erupts —
I let it… decay.

VOICES IN MY SKIN —
they are louder than God.
I walk like a tomb
but I sing like a flood.

The dead have no tongues —
so I give them mine.
Each scar is a choir
rising in time.

Name by name — rise, rise!
Beat the drum — rise, rise!
From the kiln — rise, rise!
Open the eyes — rise!

I am the CLAY CHOIR — breathing the dust,
voices of many carried by one.
Let the earth ring, let the ghosts burn bright —
I open my mouth and give them light.

Clay!
Ash!
Rise!
Burn!

VOICES IN MY SKIN —
let them thunder and fall.
The broken shall march
through my body’s call.

I was the vessel.
Now I’m the flame.
I carry the lost —
and scream out their names.