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?

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