the here and the now
and the trees

there’s nothing else besides 
not far off is beauty, greatness 
  
that teeters or falls, the consolation
of a dead monument, the breath   

of a thousand druids who sing
the thirst and the hunger of the birds

caved into the on high, yet staring 
bemuredly into daughters’ eyes, collapse  

under fear and expectation, loose
the days, the years

of toiling the soil. Hope,    
and sinful repetition     

that everything was said, has to become,
keep the peace, deprive the world

of her words, silence
the wolves.