you tossed in a delirium
of whispers near the roadside,· now your last whisper
is a treasury of lost sound.
Months ago, you were a handful
of green ribbons teasing the wind now dead strips tell
where the colour and the sparkle go.
In the cycle of things, you will submit
to the tyranny of shining teeth
and the remorseless murmur of the mill
and all of your once-green pride will not console a bit.
Heaped up in your pyre ready for
the yearly sacrifices to power, you lie robbed of the majesty
of your plotted earth
bared of the eagerness of your dream.