Chance will bring us face to face,
wingless since the nuptial flight,
in some dusty market-place
where no-one cares to buy.
The scaffolding of old constraints
will fall away, and there will be
no ceaseless tumult of the hive,
no anguish and no ire.
You worship a decrepit god -
observe him trading trust for trash,
turning temples into ash,
counting his small change...
Chance encounter
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106042801242
Свидетельство о публикации №106042801242
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