Gary Allen
Kingdoms lost
So this is my father, the thinker
a burnished rock before the fire
the fixed eye, the slow intellect,
the quick child and the trapped adult.
These squat hands are at rest,
they have made things that have been useless
have laboured without gain, bore weapons,
touched without love,
now at peace.
Oh speak to him, bring forth names,
how many years of sweat and fatherhood
against the throw of the dice?
A red cloak, a crown of thorns,
will buy him drink
let him think the world is random
soldiers kill or be killed:
he strikes, makes his mark,
while the sirens sing for the waiting boy
and thirty pieces of silver is cut
like fish gut from hungry mouths.
Page(s) 61
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