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This was not the sacrifice of great love, Legend of the first of these days. This sacrifice was by sleight of hand By those who clamour in public: Agree to peace, demand position And forget the dead. Our souls are trees in a grove Separate, fixed, unable to reach each other. We are those with no voice, We are those you have turned away from. All this would not cause distress If the living came And lay on grass between us And let us stretch The branches of our limbs above them. But this is a barren grove. Here we stand alone Between us empty earth. Dry wind of unconcern Flakes the bark And withers the leaves. Even the wood of our trunks Will perish and with that Will come the endless night Of true death, to be forgotten. |
