Haunted Ballade
#30 of poetry
When I wrote it this was entitled "Ballade of the Walking Dead" but that's a title that's gonna be culturally unavailable for a decade or so yet.
Where is the home that once I knew, that stood
Deep in the meadow drifts, encircled nigh
With tender orchard groves, then emerald woods
That slumbered as the summer clouds slipped by?
Beneath the twisted briars those meadows lie.
The fallow fields go down to furze and fen.
The cracked foundation stones none can espy.
So tell me, ghosts, who is the victor then?
The wealth of nations founders in the sea
For bankers fly in horror of the land.
Grey manifestos swear to set us free
Amid much contradictory command.
Across the skies they stretch their scarring hands
And when they strike, on what may we depend
Save that, whoever wins, our loss is planned?
So tell me, ghosts, who is the victor then?
Weep not for me, ye ghosts. I am beyond
Your haunting wails. Weep rather for the child
Of these cold latter days, where is not found
Hearth, homeland, fruit of life not tame nor wild.
If there be no sweet earth yet undefiled
And none to tend it- well, here is my end:
I think you will grow hungry soon, I smiled,
And asked the ghost who was the victor then?
Prince unashamed, you took my love, my land,
My life, my sky, then took them all again.
I may be dead and gone, but you are damned,
So tell me, Prince, who is the victor then?