Thursday, September 29, 2016

Imperio do real I

The Spanish palace
Crowned with palms
Is overrun with sunburned, fat,
Margarita-in-plastic-cup-drinking
Families in sandals.
The flies are happy.
The smell of wasted food
Must pain these creamy domes
How all the bloodshed was for naught.

The palm holds in its limp fingers
The history of the empire
In stately turn and glittering fringe
As its fountain pen still sways in billowing air.
The hands can’t write those lines.
They never could.

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