We tuck our dreams into broken
walls. Each seeds a prayer, sprouts like
a moonbeam, vining toward outposts
for the living.
Bring the healer, the howler, the
listening ear, to break the spell
keeping us here, wreckage on
the path to hell.
Weave a nest spinning gold
for all the birds of passage.
The shuttle waits to bear us away from
the pain of disdain, and sword-eaters
who swallow fire, show us a new flame.
We test our pulse as we sleep.
Dreams bring divine messengers
who summon the grace needed to
transform those buried, burnt,
tied to stones, to be bound
hence forth by love alone.
No longer slaves, we embark
beyond this grave where hatred,
fear & lies held sway.
We rise, rise & sing, joyously sing,
wisely, remembering everything.
—Martha Koock Ward
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