Black birds fly back to their distant mountain

Resume the ancient shape where they began

The lonely hand that bent them to their curve
cannot hold them to their signature form

See how others have bent their bows to fight
fitting to their strings arrows of sharp words
shooting the virtuous from the shadows

When things fall apart what must poets do?
Don’t forget the proverb one poet caught
casting his gaze on the wide horizon
‘They steal the saint while you’re making the shrine’
Buddhist saints echoing among his own

Great and mediocre will keep on writing
sturdy wheat growing up with rootless chaff
We all bend before the same scorching winds
finding shelter in words we come to love
We oppose the ones who choose brutality
making this open field their gated site
We’ll bend our backs to sow the seeds again
harvesting our thoughts amid circling crows

Adapted from Psalm 11