Thursday, January 28, 2021

Socialist Sonnet No. 18



There’s not one hundred thousand Covid deaths,

But one personal death a hundred thousand times,

With tears the unit of grief. As frost rimes

The season still, so the count of last breaths

Continues unstaunched, with lockdowns unlocked

Only to be locked again and borders

Closed, as if virus observes such orders,

While politicians appear publicly shocked.

Inter-governmental squabbles have started,

Contending for vaccines. Should supplies stall,

A failure for one is a failure for all:

Common weal and common health can’t be parted.


If the free market’s promoted to decide,

What then the cost, how many will have died?


D. A.

1 comment:

Tony said...

Excellent poem, very poignant!