Harvest fields aflame
burn black scars of bigotry
in these greed and peasant lands.
Youth across the pages run,
angry cries rent the air,
petrol bombs are in their hands.
Trapped in spiral despair
our wasted cities turn,
riot, and ignite a TV scream.
Now through high mist wanly
a huge and bloody sun
sets like her puritan dream.
1982
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