This poem exists, because
the sea and sunlight mingle.

In the nighttime of life
when men’s vandalism ruins the good
the blood collected by hospitals
spills into streets pocked by bombs.

The song of the thrush is eclipsed
by the glare of decay.
The sound of the moon is a sight
no one living remarks.

This poem exists, because
not all that we call hope is lost.

The hospital blood banks are ugly.
Their smell is of death.
‘Remember the good,’ seers cry.
Did it ever exist

except in the dreams of the besotted
enamoured? They died.

On the edge of the empty, the fullness
goes pale and winks out.
The vandals trap songbirds,
collecting their tongues for the sound.

This poem exists, because
if it does not continue, what then?