Breast-beating is what we’re good at,
fiddling while Rome burns,
shooting at shadows with the sun in our eyes,
screaming in foreign tongues
and any number of other platitudes.
Yet though our feet of clay are held fast in mud,
and honey is only for coating tongues (our own),
though I write of mist men and darkness,
the bitter blood we make over illusions
and storms that wreck, winds that moan
still the great bird will soar,
the sun rise, rose and gold,
in a sky a million millions of years old
like a new-fledged chick
from a dinosaur egg.