The crickets made our song, daily rhythms like a band, until these heroes come along, spilling sewage in our land.
Tell the kids there’s a messiah. Tell the soldiers it’s their boss. Two hectares of olive groves and Lavender cutting costs.
Yell out as loud as a weather god, a thunderstorm, an avalanche, an Anzu bird, a bull, a bomb inside a cadillac.
Like the hero killing the guardian of the forest, set a white hot flame to the cedars, reduced to wasteland. Like the hero killing the guardian, an omen of an omen.
From slung stones of child soldiers, names engraved into the sun, to smart bombs against Goliath in paradise and beyond.
From the mother of the Jordan, through the white stone tomb. A plate in bed, a fighter jet, a wake in someone’s living room
for the death of a villain, mourned with fragrant rose. Burning sacrificial herbs to light the maggot in his nose.
Bones from stone, blood from sea. I want more life in between the trees.
Bring sweet words to the quarrel. Friendship burns with special oil.
Above the column of limitless fire to the animal womb, hungry and tired.
Ensnared by craving through countless earths, hastening through this round of rebirths.
The great screaming, the great heating. A bright pearl with dust covering.
Like the hero killing the guardian of the forest, set a white hot flame to the cedars, reduced to wasteland.
Like the hero killing the guardian of the forest, set a white hot flame to the cedars, reduced to wasteland,
an omen of an omen of an omen.
