We stayed at home, and tried to go on working, charged with destiny.

We wore old traditional habits, maintained hope, sweated at the foundry

We followed paternal patterns, our shuttered or buried minds in custom and duty.

We worked for little or nothing, our bond for this passion play was enough reward.

We lived and died but our union as poets, generation to generation, was eternal.

Our Union

8 thoughts on “Union

  1. Thank you for the comment about the painting. It’s a painting of my life in poetry and those I’ve been honoured to encounter from different paths, different traditions and different vantage points.

  2. I would like to use this picture with a piece I’ve written.
    Thanking you in anticipation…. in advance….

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