Machines Ply Their Trade by G Emil Reutter

Wind stops, trees sigh, a silent echo quivers
from creek bed to the highest ridge.

Sun is shining.
            Sun is shining.

Droplets fall from canopies
pierce blanket of mist, moisten
forest floor.

Rivulets stream to turbulent creek
Moon’s reflective light dimmed by overcast skies

Eight stars are shining.
            Eight stars are shining.

Though no one can see, the misers are dancing
Machines are plying their trade.

Cities are crumbling, poor are expiring
there is no city on the hill.

Bombs are bursting.
            Bombs are bursting.

Violence is the way of the world.

Mass graves are uncovered, tired cliché of never again
Chanted, it seems it will never change

In the darkness
            In the darkness.

In the midst of dust of war the children still play
Look for parents who have gone away.

Bullets pierce walls, blood moistens ground
Though no one can see, the misers are dancing
Machines are plying their trade.

g-emil-reutter
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. Nine collections of his fiction and poetry have been published. He can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com/
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