Moss Of Moonlight Cascadia
The stories speak of trees that think
of singing mist, nameless flowers in footprints.
Tonight, tales are truths
we are silence
we are wood
we are leaf
Ten days, one thousand trees
our enemy marches from the east
sentries of fire, guards of steel
watching, burning, anise and bone.
All ways are shut, we closed them
all but one
a gauntlet hewn from trees
where deadly birds await
with eyes of green.
They come on the solstice
god on their tongues
frost on their guns
lead by one of our own
the path, her veins
chains chattering from her collar
blood and rust.
Silent in the trees, bullet's gaze upon her face
we watch her lead
then she falls, shot in the head.
They call for another green-skin
to lead them through this cursed forest.
We fall before they chain up their prey
deadly windfall from fatal trees.
Reclaim our girl's body.
Feed her to the fire
her ashes to the wind.
Homecoming is the dead's only poetry
Homecoming is the dead's only poetry
Long live Cascadia!
Long live this fight!
Long live the hearts of the fallen
who blood-fed the earth.
Bodies, like so many leaves
falling
like their angels.
Morrígu, I dedicate this battle to
Bogachiel, protect us
Cernunnos, keep our fires strong
Earth, heal us.
The night pale
with snow
ground warm
red
like a womb
