Calling to each other across the graves
The beautiful and strong whom
Horror eats, whose bones are already
Bleached in city deserts, whose stars
And moons bestride another world–
These, these few, these holy–
They are not drowned by the great white rains
Of this winter; they are not trampled
By the horses of murder and death;
Instead, they try to live above life,
As the birds above their flying,
As the birds beyond their dying.
kenneth patchen
