We are made of bread
and light, and love that is the song
of a blackbird to the morning,
a bat's wings to the night air.
The moon, a scythe, to reap us,
the sun, a child that sails away -
we weave a religion
full of fatherless sons
and immaculate women
that only gods may touch.
We have always made our own kings,
and tasting hunger, truth has watched,
its crow's eye upon the work
of harvest and plough.
To cut the sheaf, then
the earth, these dark sods, rich
as blood, raised, but a promise
even as they harden - of hope perhaps,
in a seed or the black tips of a hare's ears,
in the secrets of our grandmothers.
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