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The Generations 1
You slap your youth on the table –
a green trump：a living seven-towered
crowning castellation
with not a single grave
in its funeral barrow：
just a road coming and going –
and all the knowledge
inherited: guesswork
culled, inoculated, cross-fertilised.
(In youth)
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You slap your seven-times crenelated youth on the table
not knowing how empty the pot was
How ought to be yarned
of drugs of endurance
And yet: could you conquer us?
Our game was up
before you were born.
How can you conquer the defeated?
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