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
next
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
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