Panic with her hair outspread Strode among the shocking dead All wounds and whispers as she choired Souls like mice to a humid, quilted mire 5 That pillows them up in one soft hush; In their dead eyes blazes a watery fire. This, though living minds and closing hearts deny, Is the right image of all our globed estate: Calcutta infants crawling gutted to the gate, 10 Upturned hands and open hearts denied.
From the collection "Miscellany"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.