Workers On A Roman Arch

Workers on a roman arch Summer, steamy, brawny muscles Red With work, with sun, with whip. The lord reigns The lord oversees No workers' rights. Wind winnowing slow A monk with a long Beard but black Winds up the Footpath As medieval songs Well out of the well Of the deep monastery. An attic Florence. A Writer Is still at the desk. The houses are asleep And yet he labors. For he is Politian. Knight crosses the edge of A plain into a wood Of dense sub-conscious. Behind him Sancho Panza. The knight hungrily looks Here and there Where to rest, finds no room ‘Upon the green with satyrs We must rest Sancho' Sancho agrees for all in all He's just a servant. He undresses the heaving armor Of the knight that clanks Resounding in those silent woods. The knight is Don Quixote. Near was a town, taverns and beds. But Don Quixote passing through The town was Mesmerized in the sub-conscious Already: Ignored the town crossed into The wood of night. At least he heard and Sweetened his senses by The lure-chanting of the nightingale Till early Dawn; and From there the splendors of the early Dawn. A posse of soldiers Went up the hill Revolution. They carried the wounded. Some are drunken. Blood drops and seeps. Vive la Revolution! Wounded, wounded, Carry the Poet-Seer But wait! There's tear-gas bring The oxygen masks We in modern war be! So Many Thing Events Yet Going Round And Round For The Most Advanced Skiff In The Race Circling The Earth Finds Itself going Round And Round And Round. The Hill Awaits But Silence Its Patience Tests The Woods Have Been Patient As Long As The Enrooted Trees Enrooted Erect standing Workers on a roman arch Summer, steamy, brawny muscles Red With work, with sun, with whip. The lord reigns The lord oversees No workers' rights. Wind winnowing slow A monk with a long Beard but black Winds up the Footpath As medieval songs Well out of the well Of the deep monastery. An attic Florence. A Writer Is still at the desk. The houses are asleep And yet he labors. For he is Politian. Knight crosses the edge of A plain into a wood Of dense sub-conscious. Behind him Sancho Panza. The knight hungrily looks Here and there Where to rest, finds no room ‘Upon the green with satyrs We must rest Sancho' Sancho agrees for all in all He's just a servant. He undresses the heaving armor Of the knight that clanks Resounding in those silent woods. The knight is Don Quixote. Near was a town, taverns and beds. But Don Quixote passing through The town was Mesmerized in the sub-conscious Already: Ignored the town crossed into The wood of night. At least he heard and Sweetened his senses by The lure-chanting of the nightingale Till early Dawn; and From there the splendors of the early Dawn. A posse of soldiers Went up the hill Revolution. They carried the wounded. Some are drunken. Blood drops and seeps. Vive la Revolution! Wounded, wounded, Carry the Poet-Seer But wait! There's tear-gas bring The oxygen masks We in modern war be!