Come, then, madman’s abode
under blooming arbors
that shelter the hind, the fawn
from the mad clash of war.
Where is honor, under
the apple branch? The bells
brazen sound and clear
the rags for a moment.
and then, a rush of wind
and pins and feathers, oh —
rapturing to the treetops,
forgetting feet, flesh, ground.
Where is honor, under
the apple branch? These rags —
A prayer? A king’s mantle?
Who was I once — before?
A congregation of mice
salute me. The deer steal
my name, hide it under
the leaf-fall, pink flowers.
The swords sing, the bells sound —
I run on air, feathered.
Where is honor, under
the apple branch? Who was I,
once?
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