O' Jerusalem tree,
were we as perfect
we would have no voice,
nor raise a phantom limb
to strike at the desolate heart
of  such
wild beauty.

No, we must
cairn usage words,
like yellow gold combs
to hold your wanton hair.

So we might mark our place
among this desolate face,
to weep with grace
in this land of stone,
should there be no thirst
for veracious words
nor the sound
of human
timber.