Sing Dark to the Moon

Men sit and smoke and talk of women, 
Exploits at work, a hero’s task: A knife 
Gripped between opposing pincers—
Teeth in the light, teeth biting through.

Our breath can take this exhaust fume;
A gift to the gods waiting at the well—
A few lungs an hour hurl themselves
Upwards—black sacks burnt at the pew.

It is favorable to break—often to discuss, work 
Appears palatable, more seemingly than before.
At noon words flow like water, at dusk birds 
Sing dark to the moon. Sing dark to the moon.

“Nightengale” by Andreas Haller