Faces

Angel Dust

Grand Finale

I am the bamboo scaffold, ancient and wise,
For a thousand years I’ve helped your cities rise.
From the Great Wall of China to Hong Kong’s skyline high,
My wooden bones have lifted your dreams to the sky.
Light as a feather yet strong as steel,
I bend with the typhoon but never cease to heal.

You band my poles with wire, raising temples and towers,
Small teams of “spider” men climb me in the midnight hours.
I am cheap and swift, a framework born of tradition,
Embracing crowded streets with time-honored precision.
A symbol of grace and fortitude in your land,
I gave shape to your skyline with a gentle, guiding hand.

Don’t blame us, Bamboo, for the heights you made us climb –
We only carried your hopes so you could reach sublime.
We are flexible and resilient, bearing weight with trusty grace,
The lives of your workers secure upon our lattice embrace.
We can weather the heat of the sun without bursting into flame,
So when your world burned down, please do not give us the blame.

On a fateful day in Hong Kong, a spark found its mark,
Clinging to my woven frame and climbing fast in the dark.
Flames danced on the green netting that wrapped me tight,
Turning me into a torch in the howling wind’s flight.
Seven towers ablaze under an amber sky,
As over a hundred souls ascended with a desperate cry

In the deadliest fire your city had seen in ages,
Our proud history turned one of its darkest pages.

Yet hear me, dear builders – listen to my plea:
The blaze did not start in the heartwood of me.
It was the plastic shroud you wrapped round my frame,
And foam boards in windows that fed the furious flame.
Your careless sparks and debris left strewn on my boards ignited the fire’s roar,
So when all burned to ashes, do not lay blame at my door.
I withstood the heat as long as any wood could,
Charring on the surface but steady I stood,
While cheap netting melted and spread embers afar –
A highway of fire under Hong Kong’s stars.

Now charred and blackened, I stand accused and defamed,
Though only by chance did the wrong conditions set me aflame.
Not all of my body was turned into ash – even amid hell, parts of me held fast,
Witness how some of my poles remained when the worst had passed.
For ages you trusted my strength every hour,
But now you hasten to replace me with cold metal towers.
They say my days are numbered in this modern age,
Calling me old-fashioned, unsafe – eager to turn the page.
Yet I bow not in shame, for the fault was not mine,
It was negligence and fate that intertwined.
Before this inferno, you never feared my spark –
Your worries were of falls, not fire in the dark.
So do not scorn tradition in your anger and pain;
Remember who held you for years in sun and rain.

Even the strongest steel melts if misused,
Even a trusted old tool can be abused.
No natural material is completely fire-proof – it’s true,
But treat us with care, and we’ll never turn on you.
In the hands of the wise, we build safely and strong,
In the hands of the careless, even gods suffer wrong.

Don’t blame the bamboo for the flame’s deadly path;
Blame broken rules, and the greed that stoked its wrath

We bore your ambitions on our shoulders of wood,
And we still stand ready to serve as we always stood.
Flexible, faithful, we endure through the test of time,
Don’t forsake us in anger – our legacy is sublime.
Don’t blame us, Bamboo, let our honor remain,
We carried your dreams – please, don’t give us the blame.

Thus speaks the God of Bamboo, guardian of scaffold and beam,
Recalling a fiery nightmare that shattered a city’s dream.
In sorrow and resilience, this wisdom we proclaim:
Honor what is proven – and be careful where you place the blame.

Suplexes Inside of Complexes and Duplexes

Mac Miller