(31 March 1621 – 16 August 1678 / Yorkshire, England)


The rain is slipping. Dripping down the street;
The day is grey as ashes on the hearth.
The children play with soldiers made of tine,
While you sew
Row after row.

The tears are slipping, dripping one by one;
Your son has shot and wounded his small brother.
The mimic battle’s ended with a sob,
While you dream
Over your seam.

The blood is skipping, dripping drop by drop;
The men are dying in the trenches’ mud.
The bullets search the quick among the dead.
While you drift,
The God’s sift.

The ink is slipping, dripping from the pens,
On papers, White and Orange, Red and Grey , -
History for the children of tomorrow, -
While you prate
About Fate.

War is slipping, dripping death on earth.
If the child is father of the man,
Is the toy gun father of Krupps?
For Christ’s sake think!
While you sew
Row after row.

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Comments (25)

wow. have been looking for this
My favourite poem in those days.
I mean. Loud Negrosssssss
'And tear our Pleasures with rough strife, Thorough the Iron gates of Life.' It does not take much imagination to realize what Marvell meant by the 'iron gates of life' (how did you come into the world?) and yet many people seem to miss the point of these two lines, which refer to the act of defloration. A splendid metaphor.
Simply awesome write as also it, s flow and intensity of emotions there-in. Thanks for sharing it here.
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