There is a breaking
almost a noise of death rended
of day, or life, or joy
brought awake
and
my brother’s shoulder touches mine
and
he stands to my left
and
his brother to my right.
My shoulder touches his.
More than a mythical might
with
mirror images all around whose faces
with
firmness defy death’s tender gloves that
with
lies try to coax.
We all,
facing dawn’s pale birth like
a French horn singing crescendo in
Messiah,
join
our voices in tender fury to
join
our brothers oldest to youngest who
join
faith with deed and embrace
love.