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Indian Lullaby -
© 2013 Preston Palmer

Among the graces of orchard kings,
we sit like moonlight on a field of grain.

In violet beams of
sky-burst
bright
in the evening,
the warriors dance to beats of lives saved and lives lost,
to beats of
foot on
foot on,
pounding the ground rock soil.

Again they dance,
waving hands through swarms of fire,
light,
fire;
flying home to forest swamps in the no-light.

Child's laughter bursts as smoke from a pine cone,
frizz-pop,
and they alight,
from guilty blamelessnesses
to a painfully relieving smolder of the

ego-self.

Still they dance with eyes closed,
their raised elbows bent, rotating their bodies like planets
as we revolve around this great giant beast of,
monster of,
deliverance and,
compassion and,
movement and,
all things in this universe that could ever be so bright and fruitful.

You are my morning,
you are my evening,
you are my night-time dreamingv
reflection in the mirage on the horizon.

Sleep now,
as your heroes dance silently around your sibling star,
beat,
beat
the foot on,
foot on;

pounding the ground where you sleep.