This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO


Our children are calling to us,
calling from the living ground.
The sleep of graves may their rumbling,
but the most thunderous tossing
Arrives in this; our world's living.

Let us not hold here our shame;
Shame that dwells behind our gaze,
But give consent to shape indignity,
Fashion it so as to usher in serenity
And free us of the woeful echoes of war.

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

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