Here is my white flag.
I cannot save you.
I cannot save me.
There is a deep hole in the heart
of the earth,
and too many beings are going to
their grave.
Bird-song this spring is thin,
sometimes just one lone song
where once was a chorus, a
cacophony.
I am sad into my bones,
into the marrow of the Mother
who weeps and weeps and cannot be
silenced.
Do I wonder why—
this cry from my own soul
when all my relations suffer so?
I do not raise my flag of
surrender.
It is draped like a burial cloth
of
polar bear pelts shrouding
ice-floes,
across forests fired to white ash.
This day dying voices reach me.
The dead sleep in me.
My tattered flag waves
over a garden I (still) kneel to
plant.
And an angel, from realms distant
from this dissonant age,
(still) flutters her wing
in the breath arising
a white dove hymns her mournful
call.
Beautiful!
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