It’s not easy, with the grass floundering
under your decaying feet. the skin that falls
off doesn’t glisten under the sun; it melts,
instead, to the ground. you’ll talk of your
victory, but pyrrhus would not listen -
he knows about it anyway. there will be songs
for you, and for us, and for them. little
violin concertos, bustling through the clouds
and landing next to us. but we are supposed
to be doing something; doing stuff, though I
know not what that means. I am not Mathieu,
and you are not Marcelle. oak and sycamore
is built for us, you whisper. for us to use,
like we have used the sun and the moon.
because soon, it will be nightfall, and the
bluebirds will fly off, and the rooks with
their black coats will venture towards
warmer lands, leaving us with nothing but
the dry, half-empty words that drip off
our tongues.