Jul 062017

Untitled – III

Chandan Das

Clothes hang on me like the rags and tatters of

time and age:

A man of straw I guard green fields.

My golden bones of straw are plenteous:

Not a crow black and desolate will fly near me

The feather in my cap

Twitches in the wind.

I strutted on the plaza and loved my plumage

Torn from the Aztec we slaughtered with sword and smallpox

I could not eat gold but I was splendid.

Mists wreath the ruined plaza, and in the fields

The farmers have planted figures of straw on poles.


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