Feathers burn so easily, the cat is blinded in
the garden, last vision the lark is flame.

The cattle shed gives off the smell of sunday
kitchen, the gentle eye, the dispensable
perfection.

Before the flash takes two weeks' food, pile the
sacks of earth and hide. All of us here know it,
we grew it.

Fighting amongst ourselves, leaving bits of flesh
on barbed wire, a little blood on the floor.

Locks and bars across the door, well versed in
violation, our children beat each other in the
garden.

Our failure to accept the earth, we talk of love
but push it to the edge. Push it to the edge.

This is no natural aggression composing death, I
am afraid for beauty when I see the fist,

The perfect hand that turns against itself, the
perfect hand that holds a gun or wields a
butcher's blade, or leads to death,

Leads to death the used-up bull or incarcerates
the hopeless fool or takes the forest with a
single flame

Leaves the nest an empty shell. Human kind
condemns the hunting beast yet their own choice
leaves behind such ragged meat.

The military dream of blood, their sweet wine
flowing in the veins of men who work towards our
bloody end.

They fly Enola gaily, give birth to this
waiting... waiting, give us the reality of our
hatred, give the earth nothing.

Melting, goats dead on the green, dying lambs
bleating by the wire... three last days on the
earth, I lay down to die in the grass.