Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Poetry, Writing

Day 338


Who has stolen my hours,
My fountain, my ink, my words?
Precious little light, and the candles
Sputter in the low mist on
The brow of the hill, the house cold
And deserted, the wood soft to the
Touch, suffused with Britain’s damp.

The question perhaps
Should be phrased
In a different way.

What has stolen my days,
My waterfall, my pen, my thoughts?
It is too late in the year to recover
What has been lost, transported,
Moved from safe haven to a prison
Of locked borders and stone-face
Guards of only one language possessed.

It is not a question at all.
It is a statement of fact for me
And millions of others.

Fascists have stolen our freedoms,
Our voices, our country, our Europe.
The mother of democracy is a drunk
In the gutter of Gin Lane, and her
Children are busy killing the poor, and
Soon they will murder her, too.

R, 04/12/2022, 18:54

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