I walk the trembling earth abreast
and beneath my feet
lay the hard tracks of lost children.
Their toes scraped black
against a charred existence--
breaker boys smashing atoms
like coal and casting light upon
my feral body.
In a cave below they sit in wooden carts
and stare up my pant-leg
like ants on a rubber-tree.
The puppet boys swing their axe
to the tune of
a canary song;
rhythm that hums strong as dynamite
and reverberates with a
Chop
across my woodland legs.
They think I house their mother
in a cage of roots;
that she is mine.
How can I tell Mans' Child
the Sun has abandoned them?
Our moon lifts her crumpled face
and cries flowers like rain,
petals to mark the forests' grave
