Brows from the west wind, clinch and glint abreast.
Bracelet she wears,rock rhythm to countries' souls.
Her coloured oval Lips subtle the thought
That she braise when it comes to domestics.
Her subdue touch and crutch are her good sort.
Echoes of the heart, the chance that chest should date
With no vowel vague; and apprehensive to many.
Lo and behold certified and satisfactory core.
When we she built up beauty with peace
Our heart lunge day by day to see?
Despite giant writes and intact punchy speeches,
Yet her dumb and deaf jokers move no inch.
When will her peaceful procreation procreate peace?
When will are heterogeneous veins vaunt brotherhood?
When will her crowns suffice apartheid recurrences?
Or peace will dwell after the extinct of all her utterances?
Entered into: Gail Angel
Doyle's "Echoes of The