Nameless

"How fast the night falls", she says, pointing west. 

As the dying sky moans. The stars, she'll caress. 

And she takes the happy butterfly, shimmering white,

and turns it to marrow, and bone. Bright light. 

For the new body of new day swims on rivers to be

the mammalian world coming out of the sea. 

And the knitted webs fasten the corps. And the engines

and motors are running their course. Lungs deep in 

breath, collective imaginings - of a heavenly 

peace which no corrupt hand saddens.  

"How fast the night falls on this race which rests here, 

human and fragile and broken and dear." Look how they squabble,

not knowing the moon still... lingers bitter and hissing,

promising its kill. Do they not understand the garden they're in,

with the green of the trees and the warmth of their kin? 

They dream of a truce, a pax humania, but they sharpen their

knives, their rhetoric, their lies. 

Seeing no fulfilment, she listens to the owls who come

draped in dusk, beaks of een with a most fatal lust. 

In pity and shame at the experiment awry, she brings

back the butterfly star, for men to die. 

The planet sprouts new, nobody's dominion. 

With a wariness she hears the songs they'd sing - 

there's no one to sing them.