Oh the green lands
The wild fields call my name
Fire-wind begs and beckons
Oh the storm that draws me!
Chasing, wooing, pursuing,
Long-lost lover of loneliness born
Bloods of a feather
The long flight has worn
Carried on lips of a thousand faces
Known by none, yet pursued by all
Lost may see you
In mirror-eyes with rubble-tears
There between fallen towers
Sits the child who dreams no flowers
Yet his sleep is a blessing,
His wake only curse.
Alone he sits and humbly stares
Lower than the beggar or peddler of wares
Alone at birth, alone at nurse,
Alone in the rubble, alone in the hearse
Wild winds called me, told me his name
Wild winds showed me this life's futile game.
Wrenched was my heart and drawn was my hand,
Yet did I not move - He stayed in the sand.
The bones of a multitude, fleshless, diseased
All I wrote was an epitaph,
For the very
Least
Of
These
