We made arrows from feather and bone
before burning down our homes,
our footsteps slinking
over undulating, snow-covered hills.
The animals residing inside my head
follow me into the forest
where I cross streams to lose my scent.
Bugles blare in the distance,
but at my feet, the hounds lay open,
bleeding-out in morning's fresh snowfall.
These moments invoke an original sin.
I could fell a million men with the softest of blossoms -
slay a million men with a gentle, whispered caress.
And so I pray for my hate to be replaced by grace,
since you are the other half of my heart and hearth,
since you are also a victim to the plague,
it's all I can do, to atone for my Aboriginal sin.
~(2013 Halfling Remix)~
January 22nd, 2013
*Dedicated to Singing Rain: May your sacred arrows always fly true
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner