Diminished Octave

how long do you live, my love ? a few small 
    years only, draped in black. A day in sun, 
    palms wave, idiot smiles, stones cry out joy
    sharp in the dusty light. Woman run night

    to the court house, to the king, cry out son, 
    sobbing, what of the others, who will be 
         a few hours pain now, broken flesh blood 
    dread locks  thorn-ed hair just an hour a wee 
    while more nothing. speck in the grand scheme of 
    nothing to those who pass by. But to those 
    who run through the night, sobbing it is blood 
    in the bone : a nothing to change the world 
    not even a mistake to change the path
    but for some this hour is all we have. 



(C) Copyright Palm Sunday, 2001
Alys Thorpe
All Rights Reserved