Names fall down the years
and a long march
continues past your eye.
Listen. Listen.
Are all words clear, tales firm,
or do they waver over
the shifting hills
beyond your exact window,
beyond the shriek of a queen
raving at her daughter’s death,
throat slit by a god-struck father,
beyond your room cuddled
in books that limit the notes
in your cramped hand?
History’s out
at the echo of moaning,
the gushing death,
the long outrage of alien works.
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