This Meadow Yet – a poem

I have a country,

but not a nation.

I have brothers,

but not brethren.

 

Cradle me in your arms;

Give me not brothers in arms.

This Sunday I cannot worship

My faith disrobed.

The dark invites,

With promises of light,

The angry drum beats 

Seducing a dance.

 

Hither, thither

Goes the leader.

The bribe of the tribe 

So favour ascribe.

 

The strongman lusts after my chattels,

I have no power to resist.

Where does my help come from?

Shall I knock on the door of the good bandit?

Or shall I lift my eyes to the hills

And Habakkuk-wait? 

 

But though this land slays me,

I will yet love it. 

Though the birds sing a dirge

I will wait a new song.

For I dare nurture,

If by the slenderest thread,

This ailing meadow to yet profuse. 

Mum's not the word. Say something.

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