Shearwater

When you were a child,
you were a tomboy.
And your mother laughed at the serious way
that you looked at her.
And from your window at night
there were the star's little fires
and the armory lights.
You were tracing the lines
of a globe with your fingers:
Cool rivers, white wastes,
desert shores, and the forest green.
And a limitless life,
in the breath of each tide.
And the bright mountain rising.
Now the boys are away,
and such kicks they are having;
Slashing away at this forest's walls
with their bitter knives.
Sparks bloom in their eyes
and they never look tired.
Will they never look tired?
On cliffs that tower from the rising seas
their bonfires glow
where a tiger lies.
And, cleaning their weapons,
they laugh at his useless
claws, and all:
It is a beautiful night
to be born to this life.
And grind his every bone to powder!
Do you remember?
Do you remember?
She carried you down to the edge
of the dark river and said:
Though the water is wide,
you will never grow tired.
You are bound to your life
like a mother and child.
You will cling to your life
like a suckering vine.
And like the rest of your kind
you will increase, and increase,
past all of our dreaming.
Horse without rider.
Lungs without breathing.
Day without light.
Song without singing.
A song...