“God damn the English.”
From this world’s bright light
Bodies like felled trees
Down flume-streaked, down
And into far-off piteous piles,
Until it’s all beautiful.
But who shall be found,
And with old magic release
The sword, if all of them
Are damned for me today?
No king, but we the rest
Disarmed, sell-swords
At best

© SXT 2022