Nature? Nay Tour? Fate or?

Just let the poet's cry themselves to sleep,
Let the musicians play on their tearful words.
Where the Bible doesn't reach,
and where the deceitful river is not heard.
The boyish bravery of the automatic writing,
that is scribbled on the parasol head;
Or the macho primality of each far sighting,
that just defends what the warlord hadn't said.

In the skies fly the eagles of yesterday's today,
weeping sadly through their feathered frames.
Maybe they will clean their souls on the way,
but never will remember their west leaning names.
The poet named the Earth, and all that flows around,
but he will always be searching, never an end,
because their words are made from old sounds,
that just can't grip the menace of a friend.

Awake, stay awake, I'm leaving this place,
but expect a visit on the third day, because
I can't stay away long, my heart even stays
in this forest, by the kestrel's three week house.

Medicine from rain, water can do the same