A Trade of Blood
And in the village down below, the
drums beat. We are anxious for a feast
or a slaughter: the difference fades from
sufficient distance.
We demand a judgement.
He shall judge: the appointed power, interpreter
of the guiding light.
So I make good company of the pollen-filled
air. Juno is kind today
of the thunder we do not speak
yet it is the thunder we demand.
I settle for a wish, imperatives are best
left to a commander.
I no longer wish to command.
Folly of youth: take flight to the rhythm of
the beating of the drums resounding in
a frightfully pounding heart.
O, take flight young ashes, of fires yet to be lit.
The flame makes us rise: today is a day of drums.
Today shall be a thumping, today he shall judge
with words weighing upon our backs with
the weight of treasure chests,
upon the world with the weight of an axe.
An axe strikes a tree.
An axe strikes a tree.
An axe strikes a felling.
This fine fellow, who only yesterday was full of hope
now trembles.
Each beat of the drums a trade: one red drop
of hope for a wispy wish.
The air smells of it. The women brim with it.
This shall be a day of feast
or a day of slaughter.
What's it matter?