I spoke to the banyan tree out here,
And said, “There must be someway back in?”
The man with the instrument somewhere near
Couldn’t begin to begin.
Tell me tender soul how deep is sweat,
And sweet is it upon your skin?
Can we ever allow the diseased to forget
The systems installed to ease their pain?
Or is it deemed unwise to require
A nation to announce the news once more;
The sick and the poor and the workers perspire
Whilst awaiting the declarations score.
All kinds of innocents are asking around,
Searching for the truth but discovering dust,
As another revolution of the ground
Commences the sequence of rain to rust;
They’re never appeased or remotely resigned
To the fates that are set out in motion;
They chew on the news and are seldom inclined
To do anything good with the ocean.
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