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POMPEII
I look at my work. I look down on the valley.
I'm proud of its richness, of its green fertile fields,
And each time I do, I can count up the tally.
My sacrificial top's loss produces great yield.
There's beauty in the valley, in its farms and trees.
Morning fog gives it a mythical seduction.
Yet though I remember how the people did flee.
I take no fault for my fiery eruption.
I, a Volcano. What can one really expect?
My purpose is to scatter Earth's food from my cone.
Terror of fiery flow calls for quick respect.
Some townsfolk of Pompeii have been turned into stone.
Copyright ©
Hilda Greenhough
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