by Anthony DiCarlo
Little thousand and daughter of Troy,
who could not admire the way you can’t help
touching all the good and green, how
you lay the truth on the long grass and watch
the sparks fly before the fires start?
Who could not love your bright eyes
growing wide, your dark wail
when words are too little, how you go on
practicing what the god taught you
let me open my mouth;
tell me about the blood on the hills.
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