What retribution have I earned
at the scythe of this land?
Cut every crop, but cut not my hand
In the eager gaze of the morning
twin swallows wing
In search of a flock;
black on the twilit ceiling
I did not ask for this
What a rotten lot in the viper’s pit
I’ve been given
Through painted woods I run
I feel not the brush on my skin
Only the cry of my kin
The creek of the slowly rising tree
I hear my father’s cry
I have no answer for him
Only in the forest dim
Do I know my place on the earth
I have asked for this
There in the questioning heart I’ve been given
Why would you spare me now?
You never spared me before
when I walked through the woods in doubt
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