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Tag: chanso

Who Sings Your Battle Song: chanso

If you would sing a battle song
to rally troops, to right what’s wrong,
be sure to check it in advance,
lest those mute puppets that will dance
mistake your good intentions.

It must bring heat, you will agree,
and indicate what infamy
you seek to topple from its throne,
but take care what you bring to boil:
you may need fire prevention.

The army of rebellious souls
you would attract to swell your rolls –
are they just parroting your lines,
or have they sought, with their own minds,
the remedy you mention?

What will you feed them, once the song
has ended, and for just how long
do you think they will sing out loud
once casualties have thinned the crowd?
Will you keep their attention?

The crowd is fickle, after all,
and once the summer turns to fall,
how will you keep those fires lit?
Will those who sing now stick to it,
or succumb under tension?

We need the song, there is no doubt,
and voices who will belt it out
with sense and comprehension.

29 APR 2025

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Round Again: chanso

And so around again:
the how, the where, the when;
could be and might have been;
the raven or the wren.

The sword versus the pen:
in battles now and then
it’s hard to tell who wins;
the line is blurred, and blends.

What’s up around the bend?
Who knows? To see us then
is merely to pretend,
to forecast of the end.

The currency we spend
for lies and hope depends
on credit from our friends
and how we limit them.

We dare not to offend
what might hide in the glen
awaiting living men
who march to war again.

How fast the truth descends!
Around our necks it wends
and gyres, while we extend
our courtesies. Amen.

Off round and round again;
we start, we end, we spin.

3 FEB 2017

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The End: a chanso

Again the end comes ’round.
The nights grow longer still,
and taint each daylight hour
with hints of gray.

A year is gone! Profound,
how time escapes, and will
elude our grasping power
and run astray.

Our clock is now unwound;
the gears of our great mill
have ground their flour,
and are at bay.

All gone, except the sound
of memories, that will,
with new spring’s showers,
clear gloom away.

Again the end comes ’round;
review again the bill
for the last happy hour,
and gladly pay.

End’s wreath is birthing’s bower;
born, a new day.

16 DEC 2010

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