Five Lines

Five lines Five lines With which he marked time Five lines flared from the ovens He pulled the ribbons from their hair With melodies beaten from the sheets of his mother Songs for the end of time Five lines Return the birds to their singing The sun fell, should we leave it to the foxes? The sun fell from the sky Leave it to its wits and its devices The sun fell from the sky in the form of a stag Buried deep in the forest And that’s where he felled it A blow to the head That left it unconscious Nothing further was said We’ll set a place for him We’ll set a place then For he had tried Blood, bone, feathers to the sky Even in flight Nothing could have spared him Five lines Five lines flared from the oven Five lines with which he marked out time Leave him for the foxes Leave him for the foxes