I watch them feeding
Fingers bleeding
Tracks like scars carved in the sand
From where the lost are leading

I see them slowing
Kneeling, sowing
Planting in the earth, demands
From winds no longer blowing

I hear them weeping
Old wounds seeping
Puss and scabs pour from the brands
From secrets not worth keeping

I sense renewal
Dead tribunal
Set with stones on salted land
For prices made communal

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