Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 18

When all is transfigured
And yet all stays the same,
When forests, like mirrors
Reflect the quest of man,

When bodies of wood
and bodies of brick
Clash between sword and root,

Who will speak with plaited tongue
Those woven words of sap and blood?

For where mechanical hearts tick
And flesh is sold like fodder,
We have forgotten both
Brilliancy and consequence.
We have forgotten
We are sons and daughters.

With roots like family,
like illumination,
Like a Book of Kells
Interlacing the soil beneath our feet -
May our arms, like branches
Extended high in praise,
Pierce again this wounded miracle,
Our white sheet of sky.

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