From when comes this eco, this signal of the past?
From these tapered rooms, with their quiet sorrows?
Or from the long drawn out, half-smiles
Of our ancestral hosts, mad in the halfcocked night?
You who judge me, who judge such wreakage,
How has your bright heart been butchered?
When has the gentle wind of such a night,
Breathed so sadly into your quiet rooms?
Brent Hightower
Copyright Brent Hightower
21stcenturyperceptions.blogspot.com
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