VII.

I take hold of a magical tree
and throw it deep into the soul;
singing and laughter follow and
eternal desire to find all roads
to freedom. Mornings of crowded
storms obscure the signs soldiers
write on the walls of the room
where they thrash out conditions
of their victory. Women carry
dirty, fresh vegetables and know
ah, there will be love unyielding.
Move throughout me, magical tree!
Cut through the book of my severity-
move, fly! Let me feel the magical
green break apart the hardness of my
heart. Fly to the somber and soul
sick and speak of futures they can
not see.