We send another dagger deep into its side;
And still we are forgiven.
We crucify and curse it,
If every dropp of blood is not given.
We watch with anticipation,
As it staggers from its wounds.
We clamor for our buckets,
To scope up the oozing crude.
I return to view the violence
And survey the scene of our desecration.
But all that remains
Are the scars of our devastation.
We must change our course,
For if we fail to make the correction,
Finality will fuel the future,
And there will be no resurrection.
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Comments about this poem (Crucify by Richard Betts )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 December 1797 – 15 February 1869)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- A Late Walk, Robert Frost
- Inspiration, Henry David Thoreau
- Ghazal, Mirza Ghalib
- Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life, Henry David Thoreau
- Summer in Calcutta, Kamala Das
- A.Pushkin, Anchar - translation (rus.), Lyudmila Purgina
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