how long have these tongues been training, gathering miles in this march?
all sinew and song now, seeding a note long overdue, stitched in the scars
of familial bones, now wind at broken backs where you fire at newborn ghosts
haunted by the children of the children you meant to unwrite but their names
were in the same hand as the first word and rhyme in this abundant night
now shining and porous with our open mouths the gates of a dream released
from these feet to our leaning crowns in the sight of what above your drones
past snipers’ tired talk of empty rights by which you vented brutal might this now when our huddled mass finds home in no-man’s-land of common exile
what horse for what discordant era now rides your conquest in reverse
what young hearts, annexed to your butchered beliefs beat back the boots
in which you shake behind armor to magnify your haunt without relief
lost pilgrim, it is time to take off your boots, unmask your eyes and stop,
unstop your ears for there is enough salt in our tears, enough light, to return
you to the land you lost yourself from when you rode off to claim the lot
no pilgrim, there will be no rest for these ghosts that haunt you for the land
so long watered by the slaughter of your making now becomes a rising spring
of remembrance in these open hands inviting your first word back to singing
by first light
