For Whom the Pyres Burn
The smoke is rising
On the far horizon
The Eastern skies are aglow
With the countless fires,
Of funeral pyres
In numbers we cannot know,
Strange fires indeed
That burn for the need
Of oxygenated air.
And we, who stand so far away,
Are still left cold, and smugly say,
“We are here, and they are there.”
But it’s fools who stand and look on blind
At the smoke that’s carried on the westward wind.
© Barry Freeman 5th May 2021
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