If in the midst of mannequin bombs
disemboweling pregnant insanity,
a poem of love should seduce your lips,
sing each soul-dazzling stanza
with such soft rapture as an angel might.

If your comrade's head should explode
while you sing with such soft rapture as an angel might,
bandage your heart with thoughts of simpler things—
mowing the lawn, washing dishes,
waking up dreaming in your lover's arms.

What can bombs know of the illuminated fields
so golden with heaven in your heart's sacred lands?
How can bullets hope to penetrate the armor
of your soul's endless capacity for love?

If death should suck the marrow from your bones
while you mow the lawn, wash dishes,
or wake up dreaming in your lover's arms,
remember: you were born a child of light's wonderful secret—
you return to the beauty you have always been.