A new poem
by Henri Cole
On a rise overlooking a valley
circled by blue metrical mountains,
where the river source lies,
a collection of shabby dwellings around a church
became a town on a hill
with a single gate, a few high windows, a deep moat,
and thick perimeter walls
in which twenty or thirty families lived, self-sufficient,
the women spinning wool,
the men hunting with nets and falconry,
until, without provocation,
their Lord was murdered in his sleep.
It takes a special charisma for one man to say to another,
“Go forth, kill and be killed.”
We hope you enjoy this excerpt.
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