Caution! I’m beginning to play with a 13th century French poetic form. Read with care!!—
“On The Border”
Beneath early autumn sun
Across crystal azure skies
A solitary owl flies
And tiny, frightened, vermin run,
Homeward, nightly battle done.
Under ever watchful eyes
Beneath desert morning sun
Frightened desperate people run
From the torture and the cries
As the wounded die beneath.
From high above the “shining” shun,
Mouthing, loudly, lofty lies
As, far below, the “vermin” flies
Hiding from the haughty gun,
And gilded boot they shy beneath.