I mourn old tales of old gods

As a lioness of discontent                 

Shouts upon

The reddest earth,                                                   

No longer silenced by                                           

The religion of false deities.

 

With volcanic urgency I was made molten

And shaped again.

With fire I was turned to ash

And made into an open pot for alchemy of             

Experience and Spirit                                                  

Voiced in the body.

 

The past is a myth,

A story retold in nerves and flesh.              

Twisted iron carried in the blood,              

But now used for oxygen at last.                      

 

See how red we are.                                             

So we can breathe.