Bequest Poem by Sheridan Spence
Bequest
Bequest
-
And so it is
Futile.
Speak to me of newborn pillars –
Shrieking tenants of sacrifice.
Erudite men care not for
These babbling crimson
Streams –
It continues.
Speak to me
Of finite desperation,
Of shrill commiseration
With merciful oblivion.
Surveyors plodding on
Through shreds of humanity –
Contaminated, murky rivers:
Speak to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 10:47:11 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
Yo Spence, I'd sure like to speak to you.....but what is it that is being bequeathed? Talk to me! ! Cheers. Subroto