The drawing of a torch
Sometimes there is only bad news:
Death waiting in the wings,
In the meantime
We must hone our vision to what is half-perceived
Will we risk our children for the future?
Make preparations, plan?
How to respond to a war of each against each?
We must find friends where we can.
Learn to speak in broken languages
Bring back all those young men we lost
In the wars, wars, wars
Such heroic and dreadful losses,
That tore the heart out of a people,
Men live apart. In zones.
Some art was formed in the temperate zone
Art of rock and mountain, valley and stone;
Come, see through the mist into his deeper darkness.
Men, here, are most at home in autumn and spring
Benighted creatures of the equinox.
It is true also there is an art
In a fealty which had its day
In the torrid zones of the solstice
Scratching at the earth, staring at the stars;
gods appeased, placated, entreated;
Sanctuary offered in the quiet of the morning
When wind passes through rushes,
and the artist returns to work.