Monday, 30 March 2020

Spring 2020 Villanelle

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,
You knew not truth, thought death incompetence,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

For fear of freedom is a foul disease
And so is bossiness and arrogance,
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease.

We see our hard won freedom wither, freeze.
Though death’s the thing you couldn’t countenance,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

We’re gone and yet you could still us appease,
If you nursed freedom, gave her sustenance.
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease

At birth we start our dying by degrees,
Accustomed to it, feel ambivalence.
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

You used us, badly, liberty to seize,
Expect revenge and anger, vehemence.
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

No comments:

Post a comment