Poetry

But How?

Here at the start of a century
Already no longer new, again
The poor are rich in dreams
And the rich have nothing.
Mad peril lashes out in every
Direction, the world herself
Besieged, envious of the quiet
Moon, empty of Man, serene.
Hope is a thin reed in rising
Waters, but even in the high
Seas we’ll cling on, unmoored
And netless, needy fishermen.
More than hope, we must
Find a way to build a boat,
An ark and covenant while
In the heavy water rushing by.

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