Sometimes there is only bad news:

Death waiting in the wings,

In the meantime

We must hone our vision to what is half-perceived

Half-created

Will we risk our children for the future?

Make preparations, plan?

How to respond to a war of each against each?

We must find friends where we can.

Learn to speak in broken languages

Bring back all those young men we lost

In the wars, wars, wars

Such heroic and dreadful losses,

That tore the heart out of a people,

Men live apart. In zones.

Some art was formed in the temperate zone

Art of rock and mountain, valley and stone;

Come, see through the mist into his deeper darkness.

Men, here, are most at home in autumn and spring

Benighted creatures of the equinox.

It is true also there is an art

In a fealty which had its day

In the torrid zones of the solstice

Scratching at the earth, staring at the stars;

gods appeased, placated, entreated; 

Sanctuary offered in the quiet of the morning

When wind passes through rushes,

and the artist returns to work.