The splurge of the old country’s sky
is not of water, but parcels of gestapo grenades
dislodging fanciful bodies
from their dream of airborne salvation.
You too must travel concentrically
between the moon and the town
to seek asylum under the trees,
by the riverbank where the egrets are gathering.
You must know the do-gooders
on the country road
are the postmortem team
airborne from grief.
You must read democracy as a syllabus
of many hagiographies.
Government children are nepo babies
living also in a lighthouse of a foreign country.
You must understand that
a war foretold is a war fore-won.
How can your whole life
be made of running?
Cover image: Illustration from The Genera of Birds, via Wikimedia Commons.