In these blood red days
the moon still shines as pale as pearl,
and green waves lap upon the shore.
In these days of falling stars,
the sun climbs still with fiery strides
into a sky of brazen blue.
When will cool rain fall,
crystal clear, without a sound,
except to whisper in the leaves,
no danger comes?
So many words fall from twisted lips,
bramble-tangled, snagged with thorns,
and we drink them like the parched sand rain.
In these blood red days,
I take my chair and sit beneath the broad-leafed vine
and listen to the blackbird sing.
Into the dark we are all bound,
but I will take this sweetness,
to roll and echo,
smooth as pebbles in the tide,
and weave a web of peace among the tears.