Under the Sun
Nothing new and nothing old
flows from the palette Time,
no colours stuck or icy cold
can mask the blood and grime
Here a dab, a tinge of hate
a shade of envy and deceit
last runners, now a little late,
stand puzzled in the street
another portrait lies beneath
the dried and broken crust
other mothers lay a wreath
for sons they could not trust
Galleries of make believe
hang landscapes brushed by fear
who must cheer and who must grieve
to make the madness clear.
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