Song of Cumberland

And lo, behold the bitter fruits of him
the sour taste of blood and salt.
That bears the sword of hell and whim
whom slays the boy who kneels without fault.

Cut is the branch from the mother's tree
the olive branch tis dipped in blood,
and has writ the wall so all may see.
lo the tears rise like a violent flood.

if the oceans of the world rose up and swallowed us whole
it could not purge the hand
that showed her mind the nether world
and led her past never land.

the white dove makes his final flight
towards purple sunset, out of sight.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

this is an older poem of mine.

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