They fought in my fields and chased each other round my trees. My rocks,
my warm rocks were dyed with their blood as it dripped from uniforms,
and my air was soaked in cries and tears, gun powder misted the leaves
where no one stood, I saw a child waiting with his pail, his chores undone,
he watched, he shivered in my shade while I was dying,
he watched, waiting with his pail, his chores incomplete, he tore himself
away, I floated up my river tasting everything I could, the clover in bloom,
a sparrow flying through me, rain quenching my soil, stirring last autumn’s
seeds cast out in a line, I cannot grasp, I can see my son, I can see my moon,
my wife as she hears me gliding, turning aside the windows,
I enter her eyes and touch her fingers, smooth her lips, drink the wine of her,
she is my sword, my beating heart, she is alone as I whisper to her.
I tell her about my fields, how indifferent dirt can be when it’s wet,
water is blood or blood is water, absorbed and dispersed. The trees
will grow, an orchid will flower but we will die.