No one understood when we heard:
take these bones and prosper.
We are slowly dying by our own hands.
The wind is gone; what it carried is gone.
Without us can nature bear its cruelty towards
its own or are our angels cutting out their hearts,
passing into fire like the sacrifice of moths?
Wait for night, evening homage, listen to
its black guitar, silvered flutes, haunting songs;
even as we're lost they guide us home.