eyes alternate, waiting tides from both.
Fear the tales of unrestricted growth –
beware the visions of a promised feast.
We stand in foothills where the land is creased,
freely we give, and solemnly, our oath,
for those to come alone assay our troth:
forgive the song, but don’t forget the beast.
The man of steel prepares the bed of ice;
the cloth is cut, the pattern customary.
We measure once, but know the cut comes twice –
what’s past is prologue to the ever wary.
Our fathers keep the gardens inundated,
our sons define the story, never sated.
|Blame Russell. He picked the topic.|