My flaming eyes still burn to hate you;
you and your fenced-in little world.
My jaded hands just ache to stab you,
to push in deep the blade of truth.
And in your trimmed back garden land
I see the hungry picking worms,
and in your smart, fat children's faces
the flattened colonies of ages.
Yet when I raise a blood-drop from you
your daughter's slender hand persuades me
that I can't bear to see you bleeding
nor to feel you breathing.
Keith Armstrong
