Those good souls return…

Those good souls return

to the quiet rooms of dream,

while those so self assured,

rigid like steel beams,

continue their perilous passages

on the edges of brittle blades.

Those good souls cannot hear

the sword unsheathed in clouds,

nor the sound of a child’s cheer

as blood flashes across their brow,

but they listen to the pledges

of those in line at the gates.

Those good souls asleep under soil

while we worry about the mud,

and worms feast on their spoils

savoring the taste of tongues,

but we would rather dig trenches

wherein men obliterate.

Those good souls wield an essence,

their reflection now lingering

in the basin full of clear water,

and the forest flushed with green,

and the sharpened knife slicing bread,

and the window of our dreams.

Death is just a breakthrough,

smashing the illusory glass,

and souls travel open roads

while we are stuck with ancient maps.

Those good souls, and what are we?

Nothing but tiny mice in wide meadows,

useless, scurrying, hiding under pebbles,

and you, the shrieking swoop

and the silent swift wing…