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THE TERROR OF THE BLACK DEATH

05-05-2010 at 11:42:42 PM

THE TERROR OF THE BLACK DEATH

]THE TERROR OF THE BLACK DEATH


Are these black spots I see on me?
On my stomach , my hands, my face,,
The loathsome seal of Death? Woe is me! \
Get hence, ye Evil Spirit, hence!
I rebuke thee! Get thou from me!
Thou pestilential pandemic!
Away, thou fatal Bourbon Plague!
Get hence! Why must thou molest me?
Oh, miserable venom, Black Death!
Why Hydra raised her many heads,
To bark too loud fierce Cerberus?
Should they not spare me the scholar
To speak in Greek of things classical?
Get hence, ye mean fellow, hence,.
O tu Yersinia pestis!
Nolo mortem timere. Ito
Pauperes interficere!


The death cart rattled down the street,
The London’s fog was thick and dark;
“ Bring out the dead! Bring out the dead!”
Was the sad cartmen’s mournful cry..
Shrouded figures leapt from the cart.
Their torches glimmered in the smog.
Faces shivered behind shutters,
Through the dark door they carried him,
He screamed that he was not yet deadl
Threw him atop the rotten pile,
The death cart rattled down the street;
“Bring out the dead!” the cartmen cried,
Wailings of the bereaved living,
Were cries that followed after them.


“Bring out the dead! Bring out the dead!”
Mournful cries in language diff’rent ,
Rose in every town of Europe;
In years from thirteen forty-eight ,
The sharp scythe of Death mowed the lands.
“Bring out the dead! Bring out the dead!”
Cried the sad dark shrouded cartmen,
Until year thirteen fifty –eight.

Thou murderer, cruel Black Death!
Killer of millions , Prince of Hell!
Can you ravage the earth sgain?
Will man nurture you, Bourbon clown,
By greed and gain their eyes blinded,
By ease of life their cares unfounded,
By pollutings sea , sky and ground ,
To rear your loathsome head again,
To summon the death carts to roll,
And the death men to sadly call,
Bring out the dead? Bring out the dead?
We tend to refuse to ponder.
For we know the fatal answer,
If we the environment misuse,
And man his fellowmen abuse;
In darkness we persist to live.
Pretending there is light ahead
.

Last edited by cousinsoren 05-06-2010 at 12:06:15 AM

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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