Upon the holy mountain
Lilly waited for the voice
of fire, the voice of swords,
the voice of stars upon her hands.
Her poverty had long been her wealth
until the crackling sky
in sudden terror struck the idols down:
the mice, the golden lice,
the 100 foot alloyed man.

One shall construct fine things,
like mirrors of his own soul,
and wear them out with love
in the hands of his grandchildren
and his grandchildren's children
in that day when all the world comes to know
that no one ever really knows
the craftsman's name,
nor the name
of she who had long waited
and now carries white stones
into his bed.

Ah, the holy day comes
when Lilly shall hold
melodious love
like light in her hands
and feed some little red sugar berries
unto that roly-poly bear
who plays in her garden:
her brown, brother bear
who has come out of the singing woods
morning by morning
to gaze into her eyes
and be held in her warm human arms.
And they shall sit, morning by morning,
to rock each other,
singing lullabies and bear songs,
until lions come from the holy hills,
leaping down to break boards out
of old barn walls
and let some beautiful sky shimmer though,
casting daylight all over the faces
of little penned lambs.