When the fields went from green
To a deep rusty red, we had no one
To blame. Nature was going about her business,
As would we. We were innocent,
As far as the world was concerned.
We were only passing by, and saw.
When the gun permits' circulation
Ran vaster than before, and the guns themselves
Flew off the shelves, we were still
Innocent. White. Pure. People were dying,
But only because their passing was loud,
And no one quite knew
How to block bullets.
Machines are easier to excuse
But still the poet struggles. Can she change
Fate? Can she morph man into mechanics?
And without words, is there a difference
Between colours, between right, wrong
And people who pass, and people who slip
Away, unnoticed and untouched?
Will we hold up the same boards
When winter rolls into spring, because
The change is sudden, the change
Brings shock? Will we writhe in protest
When the gods give rain, or take hunger
In exchange for a little monetary gain?
Or is that kind of change
Fine? Because we can control it,
And bargain our way through it,
And come out stronger than before.
Much better than we could with