Mantra

I counted the prune stones round my plate Put my ear to the empty shell Om, I said, where the ghosts hang out Rattling my beads, to a Buddhist spell In another country, families pray To another god, in another way Their scapegoats bleed on the scapegoat tree On the moral high-ground, gibbets sway Into the box we all must go Just as our kinsmen did before The consequences of fate and time The creaking hinge and the fatal door The branch of silence is thick with seed Tomorrow's language will bloom with words The tongues of children yet unborn Will sing the praises of unknown lords The birds that sing in your white rib cage Fly away when you hit the grave So open your throat, let the notes soar high Sing out loudly and sing out brave Dance then, widdershins, stir the pot Don't dare stop, or your feet will rot Each day is a prayer for you to speak Your heart and your rhythm are all you've got