Herding Cretan milk goats
and chanting Greek verses
to poly gods, writers ascribe
to the pastoral hymns of sorrow.
Where time’s the thief no one can
catch. The only thing that withstood
the binds of war, hate, and forgiveness
was the Doric columns of blood-stained
marble and the forgotten stench of death.
The sun comes shining through the window
and the child looks out to find forty years
pushed aside every dream. He simpers at
the boredom and forgets all dreams. He dies
and finds there's nothing upstairs, nothing
downstairs, and nothing anywhere but the
one life he forsaken.
- John Hardesty
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