Song of Devolution

(another poem that makes no sense *S*; probably part of a future novel)

Let it come! The final day
When Men collect their fruits of play
So long to stall, so hard to stay
    And kiss their toys goodbye.

Fly back to cradle, wreathed in wings
Once a Hawk's and again, it seems.
We quit the song the swan did sing
    For she could not let war die.

My hands, once full, are feathers now
I seek the lightning beneath my brow
Not with feet, but with windy bow
    To home, from where I fly.

And the throbbing life in soil or seas
Grows finally into the shape of me
Another arm, to reach after she
    Who fled to the ends of the sky.

-End