The light of neurones formed of gold.
The light of skies beneath the lakes.
The light of memories dying out.
The light of mourning fireflies.
Out there, before the war forgot
To purge its nightmares from our streets,
A weightless shimmering of blood
Had stopped to drip on southern crops.
Its song was shackled to its fate:
Its song of falling, song of light.
Its burned with topaz in the swamps:
A voice of sunlight through the night,
A drop of blood which stained its loss
On leaves and lives and crosses born.