Corona Poem by Michael Walker

The four winds wreathe around the weary world,
From North to South, and thence from East to West.
From history our fates must be unfurled,
And by our very blights we cursed are blest.

Corona, torn between the Easter trees,
May we breathe freely, if you only please!
The birds continue singing in the leaves,
Whilst the breeze bids us be at our ease.

In quarantine, our tongues cannot confess,
Nor can our parted lips commune too soon,
Yet still, the heart will beat within the breast
That life's birth may breathe forth from death's dark tomb.

But what satanic sacrament awaits
Survivors, once this pestilence abates?