Ceaseless shouting:
an echo in the light

Shadow has its mystery;
the sky 'nspires no plight

Bring it back to the days of
our forefathers and the infernal
cries of horror --

A constant back-burning is no
writ of lore

Dredge in the fields and harken to
our mother-chiefs, goats will be the
death of me, like me,
they gnaw on ancient skulls

Like spears cast in soil and seeds
sprouting young, the claw quick in
grass will scout the thunder's rolls

Blank as blanket clouds on northern holiday,
black as boots and blood in forests
deeper still, like the young crow's 'gotten trill;
death be found in my last shield's holes

Forgotten statuettes of Sophocles:
a hum of our queen's new families