It seethes, there beneath you, your grief they call “The Troubles”
that is your ocean of fire. You take body,
and wade so to drown. You do not drown.
You do not burn. Your hands sweep the flames and
toss them up into the night. Your sky
is your own, lit by stars of blood red, gods that are torching
your soul, so you move.
You walk upon
your ocean of fire, you walk
over the jackals, the vultures, the dead things
that call to you to lie down, and give yourself to them.
Give yourself you do not. Surrender, not to them.
You take the bow, and pull upon the arrow.
You spot the hollow in their chest and take aim.
You give love to the arrow that is without equal, without name,
and rise like the hawk over the trees.
You hunt the hatred and disdain ruthlessly, and pierce it
with the seed you hold in your hand.
You plant it. They can not stop you.
Your land of kindness will bloom, their fear cannot withstand
the gentleness of your words.