Warriors

We never asked to be made like this,
brutal and injured totems
with the vanity of mountains.
We were acorns once, picked by the sun
and groomed by the wind.
We heard news of the world
carried on the breath of moths.
We took our questions to the sea,
it told us to carry the burden
and broke its mirror over us;
a distillation of everything
sunrises to burnt stars,
the ground shook,  trees were yanked
like limbs on a dancing puppet
shaking a map of roots free,
down-pouring rubble and rock.
In that atomic moment, we saw
where hatred and holocaust go,
sealing their rage in our stained wood.
In each battle we give and leave
something behind;
armed with our weapons and ailments.
we stare at the sky,
waiting for God’s next order.

(After Thomas Schutte’s Krieger 2012)