The chains, the early grave, the holy light of day.
Once sacred, once fed.....the sins of the father,
the lie sung by the troubadour's cry, the peasant
in the field-in strife with season's toil to abide,
...
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A piece of perfection. An ideal poem to represent the true art of poetry. Superb, Theo. -Wes
A very nice poem. Ron