Occupy Poetry


BY Walter William Safar

The black rain keeps falling eternally,
day and night,
on the dusky path
And the poor
- sometimes they might dreaming
of good weather,
at which they might be
even more successful than the rich.
In ther imagination, they might be
running with dogs, hunting death,
or perhaps dreaming
of that hot sun,
when the shadows of barns
leave only as much shelter
as the shadows
of their own graves.
Be as it may,
there is much more imagination
in the poor
than in the rich.
The more poor people there are
in the forest of shadows
melting with the deep darkness,
the more invisible
this promenade becomes
to the world.
The crows, swinging
in their homes up above,
seem to be discussing
about who that is
dragging along below them.
Leaving them behind
to swing and caw,
the invisible procession
keeps dragging on
towards the graveyard,
where the glow of the tear
of a newly arrived pauper
is reflected on some crosses,
but not on so many
that the graveyard,
long since sunk in the darkness,
would look populated.
But the invisible procession
shall do it soon enough.


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