Poem: Tilting at Windmills


"I am your worst nightmare"
 the little boy raised the sheet over his head
 and rushed the little girl, choking expletives
 with guttural explosions of breath, glaring.

She screamed and ran back a few steps,
 laughing wildly, grabbing the nearest chair
 to fend off the monster's encroachment.

Conquerors, beware the tangled sheets!
 The boy collapsed, 'neath chair and girl
 and there they lay, lost in giggles.

 Mom and Dad watch the TV death count.
 On the spot correspondent, back at five.
 Neither see the subtleties
 as politicians trade on greed.
 Beware the tangled sheets...

Here no children chasing shadows,
 Here the price of faith is high,
 "Fight" plays the piper's call and men
 Like rusty rats awaken, marching,
 marching to their death.

While boy and girl sit smiling, holding hands,
 uncorrupted by political maturity,
 negotiating d├ętente
 over ice cream.

By Grace Lindsay

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