A ledger of the wars
Each one an indulgence
Where I’m from, we call it prophecy.

Old pages crackle in our hands
thin, brittle bones.
Every ruin a footnote,
every famine a foundation
of the garden that was promised.

Where is the home that was promised?

We search the sky for trumpets
As the ground is liquidated beneath us

How many days in the ledger
until there are none left to live?
The future, counted
the past, recorded
the present left unpaid.