From the Celestial Armory


From the Celestial Armory
In time of war,
when barbarians storm the gates,
you are the tip of the sword
that fells the hordes who come
to put widow and orphan in bondage.
You strike so as to be my shield
and the foe is quick to flee or surrender.
Yet it is in peacetime when your strengths
are more wonderful to me
than a crown of many jewels.
Where the ground is hardened,
I call on you,
and there, my ploughshare,
you turn over soil that has been spent
by generations of drought and famine.
The soil groans as you open it
once again to the winds above
so you may turn into it the fertilizer
of yesteryear’s pruned branches– burnt
so as to plant in these wastelands


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