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Lament of the Dispossesed

June 11, 2017

 

Running through the wheatfields,

With the last of the woods laid low, 

Our company heard a cuckoo,

In lament we rose to sow.

 

A mist from our boughs ascended,

Out of daylight a moon shone clear,

A stain from the sky descended,

And the flood crept slowly near.

 

No ark has come to save us,

Not a branch or political wave,

But castles in the sky are sailing,

With the wind of yellow brick days.

 

 

 

(After Kinsella)

 

 

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