El Dorado (V) The Grandchildren of Apes

Metal in the air

Brimstone in the lungs

Breathe deeply of it

The wind is carrying the pictures

The rain is muttering the names

The wind-chimes in my garden ring like keys

To all the stolen doors

We are the grandchildren of apes, not angels

But only we are gifted with the eyes to see

On days without f e a r, when our heads are clear

That angels, we could be