The skirmishing is ended, Council Members
Have played their final, unconvincing act.
Each teller calls the tally, fair, exact.
Zoo fellows have, like Phoenix from its embers,
Opened up their spleen vents, each remembers,
Or thinks [s]he does, how things once stood, react
School-childishly against the Council sacked.
Creative thinking’s absent. Each dismembers,
Looking backwards, far from chill Decembers,
Our ‘salad days’ [cheap fiction]! For the fact
Still stands that vital funding still is lacked.
Unluckily retrenchment waits. September’s
Requested General Meeting whets the sickle,
Entrapped is Council in its pretty pickle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem