The Drums | Poem

 
The Drums

To hear rain falling softly
it is the time of their contentment
as now they are occupied
only with desires of the heart.

Who dared to become the enemy
of the King of Diamonds is gone,
buried in the sand of his fathers,
the new king smells of death.

Cost of waging war exceeds plunder
poor and hungry line the city street.
Death and dying is no longer news,
gone the official score keepers.

Automatic machines produce instant
gratification, but there is no one
to demand a place where sun
and soil hear children laughing.

Final payment so far away
no one could imagine these days
when creature comfort was luxury
of the last days of the rich.

Listen, it is the drums again!

(c) 2003 Frank Anthony

to Moongate

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