Clad in gold and white and blue and
Defying a single eye to look and not
To weep
Send a salt trail falling across the cheek
Before splatting to the ground
But one of many falling thus as she
Parades about under many banners
Letting each of them flap in the wind or
Hang limply where it had been erected
As those who had hoisted them
Pant at her touch

It is not gentle
Wringing much from those who feel it
That hot grip upon them
Pulling them forward whether they
Will or not
But they cannot keep her from coming
Themselves spent and not satisfied
They made wet by her less than
She by them
As is so commonly the case

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