The sun burns the morning

The sun burns the morning, a bush in the brain
Moon walks the river and raises the dead;
Here in my wilderness wanders the blood;
And the sweat on the brow makes a sign,
And the wailing heart’s nailed to the side.

Here is a universe bred in the bone,
Here is a saviour who sings like a bird,
Here the night shelters and here the stars shine,
Here a mild baby speaks his first word
In the stable under the skin.

Under the ribs sail the moon and the sun;
A cross is tatooed on the breast of the child,
And sewn on his skull a scarlet thorn;
A mother in labour pays twice her pain,
Once for the Virgin’s child, once for her own.