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The Island
Land and sea, sea and land
amongst the thorny crops and sands
the aegir hands of time set its demands
to swathe their lives anew

An old world, world of olde
amidst the stirring seas so roiled
their flaring motto grows no longer bold
unbinding all askew

Oh new faith, face your truths
upon such virgin soil's abuse
the masons' damage made, be major suites
to furbish up fortunes

Isle not yon, o'er quiet seas
behold the 'croaching mainland breeze
its vernal slogan brings you to your knees
to take your place by coup

A silent, inane farce
it places all your histories last
the malefic, catchword billboards endless, vast
vest sleep on all that's past

Lest your seeds, bereft of land
amongst the thorny buildings bland,
from bungling hands a'tied by brute demands
stray far and wide of you,

then love now!, your Elysian Isle
of clarion auld shores that span
its weeping coast, wild and unplanned
egested of petty mankind's dullest brand
its heart still 'live, the hearts of you!

Land and sea, sea and land
amongst the thorny crops and sands
do hands of time slow, rust'd in their can?;
or neglected be, at dullard mankind's daftest stand?

Else our dead hearts, willed, set sail from thee
and in our lost paradise, noth' but junk at sea,
the more space then for e'er more cuckoos be.

And at its worst sun's set,
like all man's other barren nests
will we lament this sinking Island crest
which I hold, doth lately only breed regrets?
Copyright © Ben Kross

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