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For London: Not a Prayer, Unless . . .

[1]117 words

The waters soon close dark and velvet-heavy
around a stone big enough to smash a skull,
the ripples torpid as in mud or gravy.
What will it take to clarify these dull,
foetid waters, for our men to reject
The notion that wild animals are as tame
as they; our feral women a foul object
one shudders to give credence to, or name.
Hard also this condition of our yearning
for truth and right: we must will their brains to soak
in blood who need a constant aide-mémoire,
so outrage takes the place of such fake mourning—
Then out of the depths, firm as an English oak
will rise the lotus that bears the swastika.