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ong of the Earth

Fly, bel canto bird, and sing of existence.

Raise your task of high import and spread beyond,

escape between lightning and sparking flint

and blend two distincts, their division none.

Ascend to currents of warm thermals

and glide over fields and fixed calendars

and tell of the sickly kiss of scorched flesh

and stained earth dismissively dissolved.

All to be turned to richness of soil one day.

Above such sticky clods and weathered melts,

in gusts that buoy beyond map-spread hills,

sing of the muddied, embittered, wearied.

And surf the heavy gravity of lands,

where, desperate to find havens in this world,

too often the endgame ends lame and flightless:

caught in the distant crossfire and range

of others' death-dark, ensnaring aims.

Nothing to own, especially your own self.

On the soaring wing, bel canto bird, sing

of defiant stares and the deafening

loud reports of unflinching execution.

No amount of cold blame can take away

the gentle throb of your simple pulse

that beats liquid time for those who stand

bereft, in silent queues, their thin blue lips

awaiting the cadence of expression.

Waiting for hours with muffs and folding chairs,

queuing for nods, for food, for rubber stamps,

destitute, dignified lines muted, steadfast,

patiently watching for flutters of hope

to carry their freighted message to lands

beyond barbed fences of sealed homilies.

Bel canto bird, you have far to travel

before being sighted above flames and ashes.

The bird of loudest lay, your consonance

will sing of phoenix ascend beyond scale.

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