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Even the olives are bleeding

(dedicated to the everlasting memory of Harry O'Neill: Au revoir comrade)

 

an old olive oil press rusting

at the bottom of a sandy garden

in this occupied territory;

children lying prostrate,

bleeding into the soil;

a man

murmuring.

about a weight, a burden, something.....

lifted.

We disciples could not hear clearly,

what with all the muffled explosions

and such, all around Gethsemane.

 This man, this man, he screamed out:

‘NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS YOU WILL FATHER!’.

but there was no other man there, no father, nothing.

Was this man drunk?

I do not think so.

But he may have drunk some wine

sometime..

Now there's

a pause in the battle,

I hear the cock crow

three times:

faraway, strange, sunset, not sunrise.

but all the roosters had been eaten, long ago

what with the siege and the starvation and whatnot.

I don't know....

 

entry picture

 

 

 

◄ a lay for a lady

Breath ►

Comments

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raypool

Wed 20th Nov 2019 17:17

Extremely effective John. Authentic and harrowing and jars the spirit - a sort of nether world between life and death portrayed so well.

Ray

Emilia Callahan

Wed 20th Nov 2019 13:36

Thank you for sharing, John. I agree with Keith's comments - these types of injustices are truly heartbreaking.

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keith jeffries

Wed 20th Nov 2019 09:36

John,

yet another good poem which clearly speaks of one of the greatest injustices of the last century which continues unabated with the help of those who don´t care. It makes me furious but also feeling utterly helpless.
Thank you for this.

Keith

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