POEM/1965

 



In summertime

in quiet wood

and friendly shade

from secret regions of myself

my soul screams the question

ancient as man

and older than the sound of human song



Must we die so soon?

Must we sicken and suffer

and cry for comfort?

Must great men and infants

be plucked from our midst

well before their time

by the thousand awful plagues

that steal inside us?


If we can build a nation

out of virgin land 


                                                                                                                                           William Greaves


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