Asleep in the field
when the rain stops falling.
Dirt collects in gullies
on the back of your hand.
My sandy-colored son,
my darling of the smoke.
In my last dream, I nearly
wrestled you down from heaven.
At night, we found you
curled up in the rushes,
drinking greedily
from the angels's trough. Your hands
were like feathers,
dripping sweat and dew,
marked off with scars
for all the rest of time. Seeing
you lying there,
child, how could I help
but look into the mountains
and raise up the knife?
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