Of what we had been and were no more

"Of what we had been and were no more" D. Schwartz

Is this my child, the child none bear, staggering
Godless, foreboding a solemn, unconsecrated past?
He’ll dream of knives, of kings without eyes,
Servitude & crime, legions of angels unable to fly,
Wounded on wing & trampled underfoot
With no stars left to climb yet so hungry to shine.
His right of birth hammered panels of discarded bronze
Scraps raised in odd public squares praising

Nameless fathers & daughters, artists, their lovers,
Butchers with faces, mothers, the craven:
A select few assassins taken with life. The season
Turned quickly. Unnoticed. Cornice grotesques
Grinning through ice, geese huddling close.
In these woods great trees fall. In these woods
We lumber slow while slowly wilting, like cut flowers
Drying, flowers which stemmed from your asking.