G. M. Palmer
What castle rises bone above black bone
from solar fields of wheat and barley-grain
where poor men flee the breath of wars that hone
their great white teeth on profit, death, and pain?
What tower climbs the hill with such a glow
that peasants, blinded by its brilliant rays,
grope naked-armed in valleys far below
where darkness falls to greyness for their days?
What wall impregnable stands around the world
with stretching arms that span from sea to sea
where children crouch in holes with fingers curled
'round rocks that crack and crush skulls easily?
O Trebuchet! Swing high with all your weight
and match them, stone for stone and hate for hate!
© G. M. Palmer
Loch Raven Review Spring 2006 Vol. 2, No. 1
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