Tuesday, May 20, 2008

There was a village called civilisation, Sir
Eliot's ancient village bought for a kiss
through an invisible pane of intelligence
Little remains of: nothing of the owners'
eye after they auctioned his tongue, part

I from prayer, part stolen, silently wrapped
lustre of a son eyeing cold the sustenance
Of oil and the horror of its contract longing
in a poetic soul and sold to the high caste.
There is a village called Civilisation, sir.

Serene small village of infants' blood, sold
twice, once for money and once for love,
Earning its right to measure between what sun
And sibling moon the village accent shone,
Reputations frankly bought, it falls leavening
Neither truth nor lies, but in the equipoise
sounding classless. A twenty first century voice.

I apologise for breaking any rules or causing offense.

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