42

Just like white dots on velvet skies
burn brightest when the crescent dies,
so with unsung sacrifice
passion provokes the chest to rise,
and fill the soul with silent air;
relieve this yoke of dust we bear;
replace the talons of the snare
with that which wings and hours share.

Accept this gift from blinded hands,
shrug off your skin of wounded sand.
When cries of birth come from the land
will we remember how to stand,
and see the hope in ocean spray
and guard the gates of words we say,
embrace our hearts when we're away,
burn off the poison of the fray?

Fear not the spoils of this fight,
the wound's reward lasts through the night
and hides the lies of sound and sight
to make them allies in the rite,
for eloquence can't be assumed
to quiet questions of the tomb,
yet if you let this power bloom
you'll find the lock to nature's doom.