Five Lines

Five lines

Five lines

With which he marked time

Five lines flared from the ovens

He pulled the ribbons from their hair

With melodies beaten from the sheets of his mother

Songs for the end of time

Five lines

Return the birds to their singing

The sun fell, should we leave it to the foxes?

The sun fell from the sky

Leave it to its wits and its devices

The sun fell from the sky in the form of a stag

Buried deep in the forest

And that’s where he felled it

A blow to the head

That left it unconscious

Nothing further was said

We’ll set a place for him

We’ll set a place then

For he had tried

Blood, bone, feathers to the sky

Even in flight

Nothing could have spared him

Five lines

Five lines flared from the oven

Five lines with which he marked out time

Leave him for the foxes

Leave him for the foxes