Thursday, April 05, 2007


The hills are burning. Hover: do not land
just yet. We need a place to make a stand
but this isn’t it, under smoke-yellow skies
that echo with the harsh sounds of command
so loud, they drown out any softer cries.
There’s nothing left here now—it’s no surprise
that desolation’s empty. Those who fled
may hope for homecoming, but realize
the chance is scant. Those who remained are dead.
It’s all been done, you know; it’s all been said
the hourglass is broken and the sand
flows under bridges. History’s been fed:
a dangerous pet, that often bites the hand
a starving dog that eats a starving man.

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