A Broken Song
If they had crossed channels and straits,
Unshod and broken,
Or had penetrated borders at night,
Using the glowing lamps of their pupils only,
Or had come stealthily
Like drunken thieves upon a cooperage,
Breathing heavily
With the heaving chests of grifters,
Do not treat them as spies.
They are Exiles.
So miserable are their auras that
They smell of scandal —
Scandal surrounding prodigals who broke
Every rule that needed to be broken,
Thus breaking free from the gouts of the
Infested and hard-stomping feet of
Their broken land.
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