The Procession

Gonfalons wave, they carry our dreams; with lions,
with shields, with human hands, with swords,

with colors that greet us each twilight, each dawn.
We are all eager to storm those gates, march

those roads, cross those tumultuous seas.
We tend to our gardens, gardens of

guns, gardens of books, gardens of
self portraits laced with our worshippers, gardens

of shoes and hats and belts, all night and day
we tend the gardens. All night and day

we tend and nurture them. We break our backs
in making sure they grow and grow, and,

as large as we are, we want to be larger.
We build, erect, dig deep, and reach.

Our stakes spear the earth, our thirst
swallows the rivers, we bleed the sky.

Sound our trumpets, set off over the hills and
dunes and mountains, slay our rivals

(even each other), and we do it all for dreams.
For dreams and nightmares and gods.

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