A
kindred soul lies quaking on the sand,
A brother beached and helpless, parched and worn,
This victim of the poison's from the land,
Of crowding human pestilence, reborn
In revolution, and technocracy;
His wife and children lie with him in pain,
As humans grimly push them toward the sea
And soak their peeling skin, and pray in vain.
A blowhole plugged with sand retrieves a life;
Survivors screaming silently and long
To people without ears to hear their strife,
Who try to fit in where they can't belong.
Oh brother, I would speak to thee of sorrow;
Will you forgive, if I give you tomorrow?
Hal Maples
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