If the charts were right, the sailors cried.

The street is still, the windows brim with eyes.
Everyone is looking, no-one sees.
These eyes are tainted by their owners’ lies.

As we age, our innocence will die
But saplings grow between the older trees
The street is still, the windows speak by eye.

If the charts were right, the sailors cried.
Eyes  gazed out  across  the unknown seas
These eyes distorted by  old, telling lies

A spectacle, a triumph, who and why?
Who displays their riches, who will flee?
The street is still, the windows weep like eyes.

The Arche de Triomphe for the French, I sigh.
Was defeat imagined Victory?
Their  thoughts distorted by  old worn out lies

Was the blame borne by the true and free?
Who was hanging on the shadowed Tree?
The street is still.Look, window-fulls of eyes.
These dark eyes  are  crying  for their lovers lies

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About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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