Martha

Sit beside me and let me
stroke your flecked fleece.
Sit beside me, sweetie,
and see through me
the world you no longer see.

See the mountains’ snowy peaks,
the saintly trees, the silvery streams,
and the valleys you no longer visit.
Sit still beside me and recite
the astounding stories to me.

Tales of splendour, of countless wings,
of broken honour and countless woes.
Cloud of billions, but one that sings,
traversing the new land up to the shores.

Sunless days for weeks sans a hint
made armies of men look barren.
See them squint at the brilliant tint
and wonder at the prodigious pigeon.

Perhaps it was their awesome strength
that evoked the libertarian wrath.
Perhaps it was simply the winds of change
which, not knowing why, blew the wrong way.

But death is truly a cruel thing
when the wing that flew lies now singed.
Yet in death there may be relief
when you are the last one condemned to live.

Like a fair lady drenched in ease,
so rightly do you bring us to our knees.
O Martha! Forgive us, please.
Sit in silence now. Be at peace.