The Poet Reflects Upon The Early Spring

it is addressed thusly:
A vision
it reads:
They demoralize you with words
To tell you that they think you should lose
The words are facts, the mind moves
To disenfranchise, to cut all the cords
To beat plowshares into swords.

The morning is cold; an icy touch
Carved patch-patterns into the dry walk
They are an iridescent invisible chalk
In lamplight your eye may linger much
Frostlike snow drops from trees and such.

Peace is like war and war like peace
Never have we seen this promised land
Where those healing trees would stand
Where a good mens' honest warrings cease
Those mean internal dissents increase.

Old stone, fruit of the living earth
Would it be painted with icon-hues
Or cut and fit as an old peasant would use
The tower broad, for in its merry berth
A bell, a way of royal worth.

These four were bound to come to blows
The merchant, peasant, clerk and knight
We see the bodies of their futile fight
Each tries to exclude, but beneath knows
That time will their deceit expose.

Silent iron makes morning in relief
To loud roaring day, whose noisome streets
Along them that same anthem repeats
Live in despair and die in grief
Time steals all, destroys belief

Denatured, they do not know their name
Nor do they know what a name is for
To tell, to be told, wait at the door
For a sound to tell them just the same
But they grew old as no sounding came.

Around his void each man is curled
Some abrim with invisible flame
Others deflate like balloons, how lame --
Upon the walls our truth unfurled:

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