There is no knife,
Though the wound is there,
A patch of red,
A sea of red,
A garnished valley of fertile ground.
This mistaken crest where a moon does shine,
Where a dead drought brings no desire,
no desire is needed in this land of happy times,
So think a few.
The blacksmith wields another woe,
Cast of iron, the perfect blade,
The perfect lost, the perfect gone.
perfect is branded by the death of a fawn.
She convulses and spits unto valley snow
Where the villagers bring bring blankets
To warm an unbeating heart.
To quell an act to them unfaced.
A glory to some,
A mirth to all.
Soon the fawn's forest is eaten by flame and the fire, it breathes.
The village is flooded, the valley well-housed,
The sprawling cities gone dark with the sun.
A building has toppled and with it the rest,
Sick with greed to be the first to fall.
A leveling of the earth.
by Jacob A. P.