Bathe in the blood of the shuddering people, cleanse their pain. Won’t you smile, asked the redwood, I am Love... And collect the limbs of affinity, stack them high in Iraq and Afghanistan. Bury them in exactness… then sleep. Years and years will soon fade without truth- without compassion, our most ancient vow. If the redwood breathes, might our love? © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)