Margaret Atwood

Crow Song

In the arid sun, over the field where the corn has rotted and then dried up, you flock and squabble. Not much here for you, my people, but there would be if... if... In my austere black uniform I raised the banner which decreed Hope and which did not succeed and which is not allowed. Now I must confront the angel who says Win, who tells me to wave any banner that you will follow for you ignore me, my baffled people, you have been through too many theories too many stray bullets your eyes are gravel, skeptical, in this hard field you pay attention only to the rhetoric of seed fruit stomach elbow. You have too many leaders you have too many wars, all of them pompous and small, you resist only when you feel like dressing up, you forget the sane corpses...

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