Once I strode in February’s sunny clothes, And flowery fields and melodious fragrance thereof, And there, set my nose To receive that love Of nature
I wave my blistered hand before my bleeding face, Waving gunpowder smoke and blood fumes in the mist To see the survivors, to see hope.
I’m the anchor chain plunging into the deep, Summoned by the sombre sea bed, taut and steep. I’m the anchor chain torn between the deep
There’s not a rustle in the garden. Lucy is looking at the brow of her mom; Looking for a crease there saying the words mom’s
The lion levies fear upon the jungle But the elephant trumps all other beasts In respect and command, for not the bloody feasts But size,
They said they loved me. Then, the metal beasts came, soaring over me Heaping dust and blood on our city streets, As their lethal load