Dressed in the night the women gather
Riding the wakes across the waves of the sea
Kiss the ghost lips of those who lie lovely
Running their hands along the scalps of their sons
They have come to break worry
Silence an orbiting fear
Seal up the sliver in the sky
Where the nights slips through
See the old men in their taverns still trying to name all the stars
After those who tread dirt in the stillness of a tombstone sea
Trading eulogies with the last ministers of light
In the funereal home of the sun we have come to call sky
And still the women whispers secrets to their sisters
Lay down lullabies on the heads of their sleeping sons
And hang hymns on the hopes that their boys might return
From their pilgrimage into the paths of bullets
Through the blooming fields of mortar shells
And down into the tunnel throat of the dead
To meet the waiting darkness, run their thumbs
Along such casket skin until they cannot tell the difference
Between hells heavy requiems and the faint symphonies
Of their wives across the sea, singing as if it could save them
Singing as if their songs could rewind the hoc spit seconds
Between the open door to heaven and the bullets kicking in back windows
Harmonizing as if it could resurrect these boys as men
And though some may be swallowed
Learned to lie lifeless in swift lessons of lead
Their brothers will one day name stars after them
They’ll sit in those taverns, learn to call creation by a better name
A bastion of light for their buried boys
A crucible into which lives are poured
That burns down to widows and heroes alike
As old men they will trade eulogies in the early hours of light
And cry when they think of their sons in the same fields
As red rose pestles bloom from bullets
As the caskets get delivered home
And the women the wives will continue wait for them
As sea foam along a shore longing for the lights of their ships
As if they shined brighter then the sun
As if they had held back the night
Counting their blessings as the children
Who cling to their skirts like a song to their lips
Too tired to stand but they are waiting, waiting still
Singing out over the water to bear their men home
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Dressed in the night the women gather
Riding the wakes across the waves of the sea
Kiss the ghost lips of those who lie lovely
Running their hands along the scalps of their sons
They have come to break worry
Silence an orbiting fear
Seal up the sliver in the sky
Where the nights slips through
See the old men in their taverns still trying to name all the stars
After those who tread dirt in the stillness of a tombstone sea
Trading eulogies with the last ministers of light
In the funereal home of the sun we have come to call sky
And still the women whispers secrets to their sisters
Lay down lullabies on the heads of their sleeping sons
And hang hymns on the hopes that their boys might return
From their pilgrimage into the paths of bullets
Through the blooming fields of mortar shells
And down into the tunnel throat of the dead
To meet the waiting darkness, run their thumbs
Along such casket skin until they cannot tell the difference
Between hells heavy requiems and the faint symphonies
Of their wives across the sea, singing as if it could save them
Singing as if their songs could rewind the hoc spit seconds
Between the open door to heaven and the bullets kicking in back windows
Harmonizing as if it could resurrect these boys as men
And though some may be swallowed
Learned to lie lifeless in swift lessons of lead
Their brothers will one day name stars after them
They’ll sit in those taverns, learn to call creation by a better name
A bastion of light for their buried boys
A crucible into which lives are poured
That burns down to widows and heroes alike
As old men they will trade eulogies in the early hours of light
And cry when they think of their sons in the same fields
As red rose pestles bloom from bullets
As the caskets get delivered home
And the women the wives will continue wait for them
As sea foam along a shore longing for the lights of their ships
As if they shined brighter then the sun
As if they had held back the night
Counting their blessings as the children
Who cling to their skirts like a song to their lips
Too tired to stand but they are waiting, waiting still
Singing out over the water to bear their men home
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