Blue-Eyed Son


The hammers rock us out of our slumbers
Bodies writhe, undulating in numbers

Glistened chests throb, not to their veins
Riddled with teardrops, once in their chains

The metals ring of laughter asunder
Streets blush yellow, as the cries roar thunder

I will say “fight”, and I will call “peace”
The strings will keep tight, if only for the need

Rusted pillars reaching to the clouds,

The clouds, they lap one another
Putting forth that unfathomable staircase which pervades your sleep,

“The sky is open,” you are told,

“Why now, though?”
“When my tendons have ceased to pulse?


Photograph: Trond Sørås

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