Song

The wars are everywhere, o even within.

Drawn in poor bee by the dance loud hum

Of some other tribe, poor bee. Even the center, even the heart,

Keeps a sting sharp: art stings thought, thought stings art.

Petty realm of the long known. Are there other ways to learn to sing?

Clash of long dead blades in the fallow fields

And the wind that blows truce for an hour whistles loud the rash

Martial tune. Some scribe handles himself. “Use it,” sings the song.