We sat in a circle
Of gnawed fingernails,
Our bowed heads drawing
Hieroglyphics of hope

Listening to our bold patriarchs
Setting fire to
All we had feared once —
Tipsy on epithets

We moved on
Through blue skies and storm:
Soft and easy prey
To swooping, claw-sharp lies.

Now, disturbed
By arrogant flies,
Helpless to turn back
The recalcitrant clock

Toothless we watch
Our bald patriarchs belch
Squirming, raise weak sticks —
Hesitate even to rub dry twigs.

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