As An Example, Barbir

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A man’s fate is a man’s fate
And life is but an illusion

How is your husband? –
The face in the street smiled.
He died, last week
While a small hospital
Of no repute was bombed

Every writer has their cause
Where words without the warmth
A Winter sun secures
Ensnare:
No experience drips, as frost
From a leaf when warm breath
Casts itself from itself
And the child-man smiles
Atop the bleak sequestered hill
Where snow folds with silence:
Every bomb is a clue
While children cry

A tyrant’s whim was only a whim
Since he at least must die
But an idea’s fate is an idea’s fate:
They seldom die
Lying like pain in wait

The old woman cries
While she lies in her bed awake:
For sixty years her care carried her;
There was always the house,
The children, the neat garden trimmed by a hedge.
Each Sunday would be real
And they would sit, enjoying the warmth
Of their world.
He died, last week
Before the leeches sucked their house

“In a Home” the face like her youth said
“It is warm, and in Winter we will come.”
Oh my daughter what have you done…

Every person has their Cause
When deeds drip like blood
Just as every City is a snare

Can you remember you who skirted
That path and walked like Leonidas
Once,
Can you remember the warmth
That drew Cities from Stone?
Is there no forgiving for the dreams
Of our past? No remembering of skulls
Cracked to help those cracking
To remember a question, just one question
About Life?

There is no goal worthy
For which a City might live:
But, I remember the City
We might build to the stars

DW Myatt


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