Sonnet [7]

In the course natural of that which we do,
there are but few who raise defiant swords.
Hues languid, ague blues, for some, to rue
is pain. Suits clean tunes play and watch, move hordes.
Political talks change but nay, yet we
insist with voices raised at tables la-
den, weighted by bones labored, anguished plea.
Oh, dear, take please. There’s plenty – eat, drink, stay.
Thoughts finished, beds await. Tomorrow shys
away not from men’s edge but matters razed.
When look upon a child, d’you witness skies?
Or fall, and pray, as orphans flee, fires glazed?
Around me faces chat; feet, hands, keep beat.
This feast, this ease, I owe to there, torn feet.

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