He sang of horizons distant and wide
and cities that rose and fell like the tide.
The land’s a kaleidoscope of flowers
and centuries pass in the path of hours,
but, his lines cast coastward and back again,
all that he really sang of was the men.
That gun is laid aside, rusting. That hand,
skeletal, still clutches that vast land.
April 4, 2025. Edited July 20, 2025. Written for National Poetry Writing Month
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