Evenings as black as the crows, and the orange flame
Too far away to convince anyone there is
A consequence. Who can look at the line of moon
Amid the distortions of blue? There is no room
To say the stars are true, when so many eyes
Don't see them as important enough to include.
It contradicts what others know, what they have heard.
There is no point in telling them what to do, for
No one trusts another's eye, or believes what's been learned.
It is what each wants to be right on their islands
That registers, for the trees there are real at least,
And the hegemon of belief holds them down like
Gulliver under needles, for something once made
Belief and their being one and the same, a kindness
Of seeing into them, eyes silent yet fixed in
An authoritative stare, saying "no" so many times
It seems that "yes" must not exist, even as the roots
Break through the soil, and the birds sing themselves closer.
It is only the earth that cares, and some stray
Solitary souls, for whom what is right matters.
For everyone else, it is a weakness to be
Exploited, by the sneers of the fearful, that can
Overcome even the most permanent of stone.
