Ancient words are not words themselves.
I move, like Shakespeare, he iseth me note!
Not like wounded soldiers in the Battle of Stalingrad.
O harketh! My wounded soldiers speaketh note,
wherefore I am blustery like the rivers of Babylon.
I babble on and on in radios, on television,
people stare at me with bitter eyes and nothing is
forgotten, begotten, like a long begotten son
who glimmer glares down at me from some other tree.
Ships sink in a tourniquet. I am borrowed, not blue;
who, who are you? My little hand that weaves
like minnows during the Civil War and nothing, no one,
marches with glass and old buildings never shaped