4. I speak these words directly into his yawn Open cave of his dark almost kind of fire-lit mouth And the shadows there my words form these shadows In the back of the hero's throat A world we applaud where chained to the ground We
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The wars are everywhere, o even within.
Drawn in poor bee by the dance loud hum
Of some other tribe, poor bee. Even the center, even the heart,
Keeps a sting sharp: art stings thought, thought stings art.
Petty realm of the long known. Are there other ways to learn to sing?
Clash of long dead blades in the fallow fields
And the wind that blows truce for an hour whistles loud the rash
Martial tune. Some scribe handles himself. “Use it,” sings the song.