Poem: April 12

“Why Is This Age Worse…?”

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWhy is this age worse than earlier ages?
In a stupor of grief and dread
have we not fingered he foulest wounds
and left them unhealed by our hands?

In the west the falling light still glows,
and the clustered housetops glitter in the sun,
but here Death is already chalking the doors with crosses,
and calling the ravens, and the ravens are flying in.