Blue sword of night,
red sword of morning,
yellow sword of afternoon.

The depressed machine
is full of sharp parts.
Who turned it on?
It's a trick question:
it was always on.

But it never rains
on the whole country
at once. Some glade
somewhere is shining -
beats of grass under
knots of sun.

My crest is laden
with mournful anchors:
each high is waited on,
politely, by a low.
Can you free me?
That, too, is a trick question.

Blue sword of night,
red sword of morning,
yellow sword of afternoon.