Marble hands | The Tourist

I saw heavy clouds hide the sun’s infinite glare.
Rude melancholies wound Apollo’s bow.
Like mist from a cauldron, they fill the air,
And drive dear buds to hades below.
They were conceived beside burning shores.
Where feigned limbs of heroes stain the red haze:
For if their bloodied tears gleam in our lores –
Offering their souls to the senseless fray,
It is their suffering we freely eat.
Their wide wounds, rich wells for our vanities.
Are memories inked for a jovial beat?
Wearing masks of conceit on our frail knees.
As their homes are judged by a soulless jury, marble arms bear this weight mournfully.

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