Driftwood (II)
Begrudge not th' soil that rotted loose your roots,
The soil that was by greedy moles burrowed,
Chewing down from underneath green shoots
And taking over all richness therein stowed.
Bemoan not th' branches that you had to sever,
The branches that were ensnared in vile vines' traps,
Trapping all green leaves in one giant clamper
And squeezing bone dry all their screaming saps.
Bewail not th' river carrying you to th' sea,
The double dammed river that muted the dolphins,
Purse-seining their feed of fish for free
And filling one party's bottomless bins.
Befriend the eternal sandy foreign shore,
Out of ashes of love campers' fire you'll soar —
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