From sky to sky the furrows blew
Away untended in the wind,
And scattered, like the absent birds,
Accusing hoards of shattered bones.
And from those salted furrows spread
A desolation thick with ash,
Which cursed the earth and sun and stars:
It settled on the crops like rain.
The memories stopped, the histories stopped,
In lines of charred remains they stopped,
The furrows piled with families stopped,
The lines of generations cut.
The sky above was blue and cold,
As empty as this land was old.
The breeze has blown the needles clean.
Along the ridgeways, through the parks,
Across the waste ground and the plains:
For some the stories never end.
The needles clean, the branches blown,
The avenues of memory quake.
The yew and cypress tremble through
The death of air, the fear of rain.
They bow before the emptiness,
They shiver with each final breath.
Each tale is one more silenced year.
The scars are needle sharp and old.
The echoes shake these moors and dales.
The trees are rattling day and might.
To cleanse and wash away the stain
To put an end to all the pain
To purify and nullify
To simplify the tales to tell
To wipe the village, burn the land,
Erase the stories, strip the bones,
To hack and waste and salt the earth,
To foul the water, flame the corn.
To nail the poor inside their graves,
To open graves and hang the poor,
To starve and strip and flay the poor,
To throw the cannibals the poor.
The harrowing has turned the breeze,
The harrowing is shaking leaves .