Scarecrow's Lament

Listen. Here, do you hear 

as I hear, the snaring beat 

of quiet men being led 

to slaughter. The dying age

turning pages, leaf by 

bloody leaf 

                  for what 

would never pass as spring again. 

Look. See there, how autumn 

blighted fields were left to fallow  

crops of a mourning’s 

mouldering grief 

                          for what 

the summer’s arid rage wrought. 

Sift the soil, fingers feel 

the spoiled acres of dead orchards 

like mine do 

                    for what 

winter’s pantries never stored. 

Breathe deep the rot 

of empires 

                 for what 

words cannot translate. 

The mute rhymes of poets … 

                                                for what

for whats.   

Ken e Bujold