Chronicle VI
Death & Disorder
A thousand years ago this grave was dug
In valley now with flesh and blood replete.
The weeping widow would not sweep the rug,
For hopeless is the home with silent feet.
Of all the men, the only one who stands
Is robed with furs and crouched in cellar deep.
A final check and wringing of the hands
Brought forth the mayor of the fast asleep.
He called to urchins playing in the street,
Who heard his voice but did not turn their eyes.
And walking on, the mayor felt relief,
For he had yet some folks to organize.
He turned towards the sinking sun for signs
And saw it drift behind the fiery pines.
