as if encircled by barbed wire
in its slow and inexorable death
and the sun rose like some great electric tyrant on fire
banishing every heretic
to a dusk eternal and a darkness
without terminus or origin
the ink of every poet dried up
the rivers of his days were gone
as if they never flowed or knew their tender embrace of the land
his words are vapours now
and no man can remember the summer rains
Flynnpoetry 