Give me your anger

white hot and raging, a sword

that cares not what or who it cuts, or why

and leaves your hands scarred

clasped together in prayer.

I will turn it into plowshares, into poems

beat it with hammer and stone

into petals and offerings

twisted vines that birth blossoms

where before there sprouted only thorns.

Cup your hands and I will fill them

with more than war

for you to slake your thirst upon

quench your fires with water

poured without thought of scarcity.

We will take the ashes from the forge

and scatter them across deserts

transform wastelands into meadows

till them into the hungry soil

and purify the salted fields

before we sit on fields of verdant green

and watch the blazing stars go out.