Protest Sonnet

There are such currents, filled with sediments,
Prospected where earth’s bedded elements
Dam the fishless rivers, fill Red Cross tents,
And in the furthest caucuses ferments.
Some blamed the devil, some called it strife,
Hurting worse the urban-huddled tenements;
The Church accused a husband and a wife,
There’s little time left for sentiments.
The cells are filled by mildew, swamp and sludged,
Bypasses burned through blue-buttercup pastures;
Signed-off as urgent, but now seem misjudged,
For there’s no traffic since the disasters.
With our chains we paid the bridge-keeper’s toll,
A protest verse poured through siphons of soul.

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