We who are
left on this stony ground
will burn bitter incense for the dead,
and when Charon the wrestler, new prey found,
has packed up his caravan and fled,
we'll dance in their memory round and round.
We who are
left will begin each day
with a fresh-cut slice of the sun's rich bread -
golden honeycomb on a golden tray -
and now untouched by the sickle of dread
we'll steer our life forward on its way.
We who are left will scatter one dawn
seeds of grass on the desert's face,
and before night cuts us down like corn
we'll make earth into a holy place,
a cradle for children still unborn.
