Bleeding Call

Tell the winds of the south
To blow up north
To replace the winds of the desert
For the hot dry winds have drunk
The waters of my fields.

Tell the heroes and warriors of the west
To come to the east
To save my children
Who are drowned by the greed of my first borns.

Tell they who take from my pouch
That my children need to sleep on a couch
For their backs have ached for long
For years have they tilled the land
And yet bare on the floor they sleep.

Tell those wise sons and daughters of mine
That I do miss them; and I do lay for them a wreath
To those returning send this message
That the old mother is dying from rot.

And now to those who are here
Let the winds be still
And peace inundate our barrels
I see in the hour glass, distant good tidings
Blooming and waiting to be tapped
When my coast is cleared of debris.