The devils of this country…: A Poem 

The shadows are stretching doom over long furlongs 

I feel there are only barren pennies for my forlorn song 

I am a castaway faraway from where the multitudes throng 

And the devil is whistling triumph, furthering the wrongs 

He has taken my apron, my dough and kneading bowl 

He has too many weapons over-noising my bugle call 

My fruit fall to my roots, where his hungry minions crawl 

And I have no protective armour, but a moth-eaten shawl 

I lay my hands on the picture-talking orb of the crystal ball 

A season passes wistfully in an hour, with the writing on the wall 

Fate should have been a miracle, but I know not what befalls 

I loathe the outcomes of a lifetime, where the devil stands tall 

I may not be able to dictate the inflections of a future’s predicate 

Did I have pangs for the subject and object that destiny allocates? 

The pronouns of this town are lost in a desolate despairing phrase 

For, the evil that rules both sides of present is certainly not my craze