All of these words
formed without breath
is magic against death
and all of this ends
with to be continued
I wave so long
with a handkerchief
to the horses on the range
of my dreams
and every scene is sculptured
from wood with splintered
fingers ruptured
with the blood of my brothers.

My father and I
lie down together.

He is dead.

We look up at the stars,
the steady sound
of the wind turning
the night like a ceiling fan.

This is our home.

I remember the work in him
like bitterness in persimmons
before the first frost,
and I imagine the way he feared
the pain, the ground turning
dark in the rain.

Now he gets up
and I dream he looks down
into my brown eyes
that may as well been his.

He weeps and says goodbye,
my son, I don't want to
go yet, but I can't wait
around to watch you die.

Why do ye fight, ye little men,
that strut like ***** afore their hens?
Religion, pride or avarice -
are all wars fought because of this?

So near are ye unto the ground
ye see so little, hear no sound
save childish voices, raised in hate,
as ye proclaim some new estate.

Whilst far beyond this lonely world,
in splendour ‘midst the clouds unfurled,
an angel sadly shakes his head
as new born babes replace the dead.

For men learn little, so it seems,
however long their span of dreams;
On heaven’s maps drawn high above
there are no borders, only love.