The Heather and the Slings – A Sicilian Octave

i watched the birds dance among the heather,

hopping and chirping in the breath of spring.

no thoughts had they just then as to whether

the frost, nor the chill that winter would bring.

no future pain: neither now, or ever,

might hope to still the songs that they might sing.

their voices: full, warm – rise, undissevered,

steadfast against all arrows and all slings.

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