The Republic
They bellow, these silent
creatures on the carousel,
these dragons and centaurs,
unicorns and sea-beasts,
and always the horses,
dappled, candy-striped, pure white.
Their eyes are ablaze
with what they cannot see,
ablaze with the thoughts
they cannot think.
They cannot think
of the spinning world
in which they turn.
They cannot hear
the music they encircle
pouring from the pipes
of the wheezing Calliope,
it’s melodies bent by the wind
into the semitones
of an unintended world.
And the children, the wild
children as they ride,
laugh in their pleasure
and in their terror
at a slow-dawning knowledge
that the beasts will devour them.
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