The Tow Line

There is a drowned boy on the beach in red and blue and his skin is pale,

We feel remorse at such a body: small and wet and frail.

But there is a line which runs back from him, back through murky waters.

Back to the crown above Africa, a crown of bones, a place of slaughter.

There the great Turk bombed the Kurds, although they fought the ones in black.

But we sat in silence saying nothing of the unwarranted attack.

But still the line runs on.

The man against his people made war, yet we postured ‘gainst the eastern sons.

They asked for help, and we sent them guns, guns which went to the black ones.

But still the line runs on.

They cast about in their streets and cried for freedom, and we joined them in the call.

But all we had was one red line when the bombs began to fall.

But still the line runs on.

We pulled down the statues and raged in rubble for freedom, or so we said.

Yet we could not count the cost of how many would be dead.

But still the line runs on.

It runs and runs and still it runs, yes still the line runs on.

And we stand as Argus with no Io, eyes that watch and rove and weep.

But do we see that thin tow line that runs into the deep?

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One thought on “The Tow Line

  1. Pingback: Still Convincing Himself: The Bush Dynasty’s Worst Leftovers | The Feral Yawp

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