the earth on which we stand or fall
into sudden ditches or trenches or are pushed
the earth with its sky blues overhead
its wounding of birds
in the winter sunsets
songs gone suddenly silent.
what poet has not loved
despite all treachery.
so has beauty reflecting you oh God of all our days
been formed even bleeding Time and drop by drop
by men at the last breath, pledged to the last breath
who knew singing, continual praise past all lament
was a truly golden thing of all golden things remaining here.
and, save the beating heart, the best, the tear drenched ecstatic
artifact in the disarray that shines forth even from mass graves
illicit dungeons and where the children are misled.
let not the sere, the disenchanting scoundrels
take it all when we are dead.
and guard our ragged souls still singing on.
mary angela douglas 20 june 2023
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