Glory For Fools

In the meadows of unspoiled green,
where darkness brings no fear,
this is where they want to be.

Fruits dwell on ancient trees eternally,1
and the birds seldom long to fly south
in the meadows of unspoiled green.

No concern of war from sea to sea,
without end coexisting happily;
this is where they want to be.

Loved ones dully sip their tea
while masses of people shroud
the meadows of unspoiled green.

Whilst you take their lives infinitely,
eating their carcasses, animals never flee;
this is where they want to be.

But I’d rather walk through the fall of leaves,
through the death of things
than in the meadows of unspoiled green,
where they are all dying to be.

1: Inspired by Wallace Stevens Sunday Morning