In a country suddenly become one
After a bald stretch
Of time, measured by immobility,
And futility,
Everyone in a pre-ordained place,
Never quite used
To the dark, half-answers, snubs
No room
To muse,
Play tennis or retch
In the one man’s land of clubs.
A few found in the least face
Home and resilience
Temporarily submerged in the slogans that pass
From mouth to mouth like a virulence.
Damning to new darkness the undergrown.
And no one grieves
The dark mass
Pushing through the leaves
Spreads, eating the green,
Growing its singular weeds,
Until suddenly one day will bloom
Flowers from the seeds
No one has seen
But somehow all have sown.
