I
Scanning the lost horizon
Keeping our eyes on
A place called Hope
Hoping to see a distant sail
Praying that fair winds prevail
To take us there
Where
There might be roses.
Or delving inside
Nowhere to hide
In the reed-bed worlds
Of our being
Seeing
Shadows slide
No place to hide
At the blind bends
We are fleeing.
II
Concrete dust
Blowin’ in the wind
Agony upon agony.
Tears like blood
Streaming.
Huddled children
Dreaming
Of quiet bedrooms
And plates of food
At a place called Hope
Still screaming.
III
The iceman cometh
Immaculately dressed
With waxen skin
Who can tell what lies within?
Resentment festers like sepsis
Padlocks secure the exits
Does he care a fig
For the lads now gone?
Cannon fodder every one…
And where oh where is Hope?
Gone to heaven
Like The Pope.
from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/DJMfEUG
