Pigeons on the grass alas

by Christos Polydorou

20638486_699029803631898_3566480907989323754_nA rose grows.
A rose grows on the nose of England regardless.
A rose grows on the rumpole nose of barren England regardless.

There are left.
There are crops left.
There are very few crops left in England.

Alas there are (still, Stein) pigeons on the grass.
Alas, what would be the opposite of the word alas?
Of grass?

Of pigeons? Swans? Swans don’t eat wheat.
Even so The River Thames continues to flow.
River is older than the Ice Age.
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Old as the world itself.
Records of rivers, of rose petals trapped in ancient gemstones.
These things we found here are older than us.

Blindness blinds.
Blindness self righteousness blinds.
Blindness self righteousness blinds

every new generation,
making each new generation,
vindictive,

of the last.
Pigeons
on the grass alas.

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Pigeons on the grass alas, is a line from a Gertrude Stein poem, whom, as readers know, I admire deeply and very recurrently on this website.

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