Crimson clouds blot out the Son.
Song's cushioned, cased in velvet words,
A stifled thing.
O song forged sword, forsaken!
Battles watched are never won.
Young men, unsheath thy swords, let words
In battle ring.
O rust dulled barb, long hidden!
Softened song has worn thine edge.
Cease resting, rise in flashing light,
A keener thing.
Can swift swords strike unbidden,
Slashing strew that tangled hedge,
Slow, choking earth in twinings tight
As "isms" cling?
O bard, peace lulled no longer!
Clasp thy pen, send forth a song.
Bright, gleaming clear in tones of steel,
Thy words let spring.
Thy pen's clean blade make stronger,
Whet its edge. Set right the wrong.
Foil singing, cleave the air and feel
The strength it brings.
- William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber
People die in bed.
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