Zywa
Falcon
Alone, with stale bread, sweet cake
and water bags under the stones
against the sun, on top of the hill
Like a falcon
Moon-cold sky, my mate
dozing under a sail, with a finger
sieve I sift the thin stars around
the Coffin
Picking up stones, arranging them in a row
roll-proof, by size, by smoothness
and colour, sorting out the facts
Thinking
Think falcon, think patience, think patience
The enemy comes, this is an ambush
Think falcon, not couch, cushions
not woman
Watch and pray Not my will
but Thine, together with me
the angels will fight relentlessly
I am not alone
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