Then there is this feeling
That the sword will fall
And cut my heart my head
In twain again and I
Roll.  It is strange that they all
Have gone and I am
Left here alone to face the
Enormity of future with
My two eyes.  I am
Unfit for more crisis for more
Dying.  Surely this
Small green shoot I
Planted in this place can
Rise and live, raise its
Lovely head and not fear
The weather will bring it
Nothing but harm.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem