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No machine guns in Antarctica

-35 in the dead heart of winter

Shuffling emperors guard their eggs more than jewelled crowns

The women, they have gone, to have their meals, finish their trade

with the ocean, make sure their economy of survival is fulfilled

In the desperate blizzard, the men, they shuffle, and huddle

Accountability in real time, not in an afterlife

There over the tundra, black breaks the white,

The women return, they are full, have enjoyed the freedom

of replenishing returns

Reunion kisses, the hand over, you came back, why not

the crown jewel is hatched,

look its ok

There are near misses, falls into ravines, abandonment of the post

dusts ups between those with and the those without, at least until next year's shot

But no traitors, no unfaithful, no victors, only the frigid wind stirring the ice

And when its time the kids are kicked out, but they soon learn to huddle

to reach the open feast of the ocean

This is not indolent conquest by bullets, or machine gun fire

Just the making sure everyone lives day in day out


Clare L Rolfe © 2021 (thinking upon Afghanistan)




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