I live in my horse's saddle: a beast, piteous.
Maidens sing forlorn as we pass.
The children do not see the chopper
at the roundabout.
Soon, their shorn locks will match the minstrel's sins of old.
Castles burn in the day: robbers ride boats on land.
Mascots fade against tapestries, hung out.

It's wonderful to sing out, revolt in time.
The sleepers don't hear the bees, save the woodsman.
Trees whisper secrets of the woods upon the wind.
Rows and rows of spears and woven flocks, poor things.
Descendants of cold metal.
They will come.
Too soon.

Bluebells and daisies flattened in an hour, green to brown.
Leather worn and sweat of ten rides polish the future.
Cut to make ribbons of blue for lasses unborn, the sky.
Bring to rise
new rivers of strange color, coppery seeping to earth.