My selves
The grievers
Grieve
Among the street burned to tireless death
A child of a few hours
With its kneading mouth
Charred on the black breast of the grave
The mother dug, and its arms full of fires.
With singing
Darkness kindled back into beginning
When the caught tongue nodded blind.
A star was broken
Into the centuries of the child
My selves grieve now, and miracles cannot atone.
Forgive
Us forgive
Us your death that my selves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart.
Crying
You’re dying
Child beyond cockcrow, by the fire-dwarfed
Street we chant the flying sea
In the body bereft.
Love is the last light spoken. Oh
Seed of sons in the loin of the black husk left
words: Dylan Thomas

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