How could I ever hope to hold your hand
but we go by the unmarked, secret roads,
in over-exegesised texts not found,
that wrap the unacceptable in dusk?
For broad highways, studded with towers, band
their grim brethren, send them out with loads
to halt in burrowed railways or by ancient mound -
or so point drone-bombs - be inhuman husk.*
Seek in your soul to find another way,
to make the love 'that dare not speak its name',
of Capulet for Montague, Bosnian for Serb,
deep respect that across the barricades
unites artists, scientists, beyond grey,
hard-bitten histories we let us maim.
Above the darkest nouns, there lifts a verb:
'Love' it proclaims: all but for this deed fades.
................
*Thinking here of all the wedding parties slain by drones. The inhuman people are the controllers who say: "Go ahead and bomb. You never know." But their victims end up as burnt husks .
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoëzieIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
