I
We are gentle.
Breathed into life,
Yet given to war;
Withering mystery
Of a veiled brilliance.
Death showers us into the cover
Of suffering; There, chained;
Held to the wall
In the shackles of hope,
Panting as we do for
Future skies.
“Careful you, thus passes the glory of the world,” the servant reminds.
II
In future skies
There I walk, not strong enough
To pant,
Not …