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My sunsets of pale ochre
glisten
on the waters of stolen time
that is no more
to some;
- unfathomably -
than a heathen, empty waste.
Have those who mock it
never tasted
what is true and blessed beauty,
after summer's baking heat
lays out
all grounded graces
on the surface of rain-soaked earth?
  
Have they never breathed
what mustard scent, caresses
mornings and bathes the sun's descent
on acrid, almost-August days? Have they never
begged a friend to stay and witness
a miracle
play out before their eyes? Never thrown off
feigned disguise and
laid themselves
bare
among wet grass? Never asked
to just be left there
with all that it is,
alone?
  
Tell me...
where do those,
who have not lived at all,
call home?