~~~ Infringement ~~~

I must keep from breaking into the story by force
For if I do, I will find myself with a war sword in my hand,
And the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
Your nation dead beside you.

Now is the time of year when bees are wild and eccentric.
They fly fast and in cramped loop-de-loops,
Dive-bomb clusters of conversants
In the bright, late-February out-of-doors.
I have found their dried husks in my clothes.

They are dervishes because they are dying,
One last sting, a warm place to squeeze
A drop of venom or of honey.
After the stroke we thought would be her last.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
And from each drop of blood
Springs up sons and daughters, trees,
Mountains of sorrows, of songs.

I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north
Not far from the birthplace of great warriors.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have
Broken through the frozen earth.
Then they outside, and lay down in the snow.

Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand
Before the jury of destiny.
Yes, I will answer in the clatter of the new world,
I have broken my addiction to war and desire.
Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead
And made songs of the blood, the marrow.

Ten years later there is no other way
To say, we are waiting.
She is silent, teary and light
As an empty hive, and she is breathing...