Invocation

Call out the young men
summon the strong guards.
Strip them of their duties
Relieve them of their post.
They will shout in protest
This is their land, and the land of their fathers
their fathers before them,
and their father's fathers.
Back it goes but before fathers there was the earth
loved, not lusted for, growing, not groaning.

Gather up the weapons.
They reek of rust
and old blood.
The bite of blunt blade is shallow
but poison
to eat all the living flesh.
Burn the reddened blade
the shamed branches that grew green
and have soaked up death
instead of cool waters.

Take the bitter ashes
and dig a deep hole
a pit not a grave
a mouth of broken teeth.
Pour the grey muck, the dust, the filth
like an offering
and pray that it is swallowed
not spewed hatefully as it spread
by man's hand
in young men's blood.

Let the hand that swung the sword
be given seed to sow.
Let the archer loose his bow
and bend toward the earth.
Commanders of young men retire, rest.
Take up the plow, drive only the ox
Young men, build homes
not barricades
and march in cadence
for the summer dances and harvest games.

The earth was young
and is now old.
Care gently for the seasons
and the turning tides
Treasure them up in your heart
and store them away like grain
to ripen and enrich your dreams.
Young men become fathers
who love the land
who cause it to grow.