plague

hark, a death on dawn's steady wings;

rising a cry from deep in thy streets

a hollow, scraping thing.

it crawls from underneath

thatched roofs and empty swings

their chains doth creak

sudden in thy wind's pointed gasp,

an aching throb everlast

these iron ribbons of childish glee

can do nothing but moan mournfully.

another child never to be seen.

thy village cries, and never sleeps.