A cold, cloudy day,
three, four degrees centigrade,
and suddenly the spring
is as dead as the sparrow
laying on the road.
We know who made
this cold spring - it was
us, with our industrial
civilization - but who or
what killed the sparrow?
It lies there without
a wound, an adult,
springs outstreched
against the gravel ground,
like still flying in death.
A flight interrupted,
a life interrupted.
Perhaps it was sick, and
thus the fox, smelling
that, doesn't take it.
Perhaps. I know who
are sick - those who
lord over us, those who
we allow to fly us into
our shared deaths.
07.05.2024
#Poem Poem #Poems Poems #Poetry Poetry #Verse Verse
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