Bastille day

Between the boulevards I walk alone,
Of streets that sag, beneath a moonlit sky,
And watch them dance and sway, as if their blown,
Bound up within themselves, they tilt and sigh,
And, the human harvest of what was known,
Reflect their inner self and in their eyes
A momentary wonder, and are aware,
Of an old and tattered man, as they stare.

I think of the third estate, hobbled, bent
Beneath a harsh reproof, a quest to free,
The great despair and with the steady pent
Of passions, charged amid the tragedy.
Lost in the madness, their nature rent,
Wound into the world of catastrophe,
And thinking of these souls and what they shared,
Find myself among them as if I’m there.

His image floats across the mind, how must
It seemed to David, that this tyrant knew,
To fashion out the hunger of his lust,
And feed within its horrors as it grew.
I never felt the anger of the just,
Beguiled by his beauty and what was true,
Perhaps to smile and yet to what was known,
Died, amid the heartbreak of what was sown.

That man and mother both worship idols,
Of cold statues and of a bronze repose,
Play upon the sad paradigms of life,
In the fiery passion of what was choose,
And yet the nature of the heartbreak strives,
To break the hearts of all and yet survive.
For in the gory depths, this enterprise
Of blood and blood dishonour and of lies.


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