|
(Now she washes....)
Now she washes her hands,
uses this worldly towel,
and throws it down.
Such
are your republics.
They will drop off
as dust when the rain comes.
In your Appalachian cabin
watch the corn grow:
it is your inheritance;
there will be no more flights
of blinded armies:
the rain is coming.
The wind is rising,
and rain is on the wind.
She parts the branches,
peering through the mist.
My tears run down.
|
|