2525 by Barbara Donne

I am not a silent poet

(after Shelley)
..
I met a traveller from a lifeless land
who’d found an edifice of stone
set in the blackened sand
..
A mighty rump
feet planted on a plinth
where words, half-buried
read like all those desperate rallying calls
of warlike men
‘to keep their guns and balls’
..
But as he stared upon them
neither real nor ghostly cries
disturbed the silence of deserted skies

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