by Brendan O'Neill

    I have harvested enchantment
    in fields of stone
    Under the shrill protest
    of still wild birds
    Gathered shadows of dead heroes
    into creels of bone

    I have heard the laments
    of childless women
    crowd through dead forests
    Traced the scrawl where bony finger's
    picked out each patchwork rut and row
    A bright mist shrouds

    their faces. Gentle
    the trickle of their tears
    Remembering each flawed caress
    nurturing cut flowers
    Urging dormant seeds to grow
    from ancient fissures

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