When the green scent
Has returned to the burnt field
And the doves to the dovecotes
And my song with the sun at strife
Then will I know
The perfect line of the scale has been drawn.
How could they spread a shroud over my light?
How could they fill my field with thorns and thistles?
Where theirs blossom with crops?
How could they put me in a roofless abode?
And let me observe time with butterflies and
How could they shove me onto the sidewalk
To gather my wealth?
How could they ignite my face and leave it to
Burn at the market place?
Me, they left to sit with the flies that vie with humanity
At the crossroads
A thorn bundle
Lamenting a sunken sun
Behold me here
Drifting in the tide of their desires
Out of the abyss
A thorn cry
Let my cries turn to your war songs
Let your chariots vie with the lightning flashes
And your anger with the raging stormy seas
In your hand
The unyielding strength
That brandishes that crumpled hill.
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