2016 01 12
Though I stand on cliff of infinite change,
and stare into abyss of swirling love,
I have no wings of hope to fly away
from town of dreamers burned by flames of war.
For many generations of hard work
my ancestors built homes in lofty trees
where we nested safe from cruel predators,
singing with stars while drinking apple juice.
Warriors with axes that gleamed in hot sun
chopped down our ancient sacred Tree of Tales
and burned a thousand panels of oak wood
where we carved our names and deeds of our lives.
We vanish into smoke of greed and hate
and our names are heaps of ash in cold rain
and our voices are muted by blind wind
so I drift alone lost, singing to stars.
If I lie down on cold stone of despair
and shiver with infinite gleam of stars,
will dark fire crackle in my throbbing heart
and kindle lust to live another day?
I am nothing more than a walking tree
who grips light to mold apples from hot tears,
for I will stand rooted on bulging hill
while waves of faces wash over my eyes.