Pity in the Poetry
Penny Rimbaud, Peter Vukmirovic Stevens
Oh, you great hordes, you who brought me here to this place of bliss,
yet who tumble still before that Judas kiss.
Oh, you children, fettered that yesteryear might be the curse,
stifled against the soothing solace of vers
e.
But hark, hark, I hear you yet, so deep within me, lest I forget?
But forget I could not, for I am of these fallen ones,
the crying voice of greater sons than ours.
