small enemy at the gates

she is made of different
stuff, and hails from a
different place:  foreign, alien landscape, and black rock

small of stature her cold
eye remembers the towering
game, the game of
mountain falling, the
game of the smother and
the win, the game of block

her world knows
nothing of sin, of self-
reproach, of seeing
amid the vast beach
the one small gleam
of holy silver
lit by the moon
the thing to be redeemed

she lives with storm
and clouds, with the
beating of steel
and derisory
flesh - of standing
proud for a

photoshoot, flags unfurled
and lauded, her foot
upon the spoil

I feel sorry for her small spirit, but
avoid her spit -
her claim of angry cudgell, her
wrong right of alarm, her bad lot - 

a world away
from Sturm und Drang
I watch her glowering clouds
her tiny frowning face
from distance
in sojourn and the green plain, on clean soil

and hope someday
she might be taught
there is a place of peace
of allaying
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