historical
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The shrill trill of the baboon,
a crude tune sung beneath the moon.
Taking swills to steel their wills—
"Run!" Papa yelled and yanked me to the shed.
Mama was ripping her blankets off the bed.
I grabbed Little Ann a rag to protect her pink face.
The room is silent,
but for the endless scratch,
Of pens and pencils on paper,
Words flowing from minds,
Through the hands,
Out the pen,
Traces of ink in gleaming rivers,
The endless scratching,
Tree roots riding rail-road tracks,
where rivers ran and reeled.
Near wakes of war-stained waters,
where the moonlight blazed em' steel.
In parting ways, of praying maize,
Drunken blackguards stumbled out of seedy, dimly-lit pubs at all hours of the night; all manner of men jostled and bumped one another in their passing. Streetlights flickered, shivered, and swayed against the piercing chill of the breeze.
Cold morning early October
the Frenchman cries as the young
officer steps forwards
head held high.
Bravery. A bravery not many
seem to possess.
Pale locks of hair frame the
fire burns in the citya blue red orange blaze thatburns all in her pathunforgiving unmercifulthere is no escape from her
Commands can be heard over an old time radio in a foreign language,
German preferably.
Snap to a black and white shot of old Nazi war planes zooming across the sky.
Ding.
A mallet comes down on the railroad track.
Ding.
A bead of sweat travels down my forehead and rolls down my neck.
Ding.
Another stretch of railway is laid for people much richer than I.
Ding.
