Tonight, the quiet sleep of Heaven
blankets tenderly, affirms bliss as promise.
Angel song, encoded tones of highest aspiration, leaps,
wafts smile kisses, clear sky. Peace shimmers.
Long, piteous, grief of buried shame, spite and spittle flung like pennies;
flagrant frenzied relief upon unclean graves…
Who makes this call? Who answers?
Tonight crows, patient vultures stand anxious, leaderless,
at crossed walls.
Standing, too, are mute trumpeteers, stranded infantry.
Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens,
counterstroke to what is to come.
“Strike!” Bold reds, bloodied swords brand these walls
seen crumbling as light extends.