the lowing now complete,
in the depression of the dew
we are freed of onyx grimace
and the jeweled greed that cuffed,
a sooty halo of clever slavery:
it asked of us a trembling throne
unwanted by sire or throng
and muffled by the why:
resurrected by milky tides,
forced from the warm blue melt
into the green of trembling dawn.
the low again will echo home:
a rescue from the herd of circles
and the smell of trampled grass.