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.