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