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Among Those Killed In The Dawn Raid Was A Man Aged A Hundred

When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.

by Dylan Thomas

Comments (2)

To all, love is a neuro-physiological instinct among life forms to propagate the species and is beyond total control. To others, it is also a game.
Love is a seasonal thing for many people. It's good that you have put this fact in a light-hearted way. The humorous tone of the poem makes it very readable.