The Poets' Lament
by Ken Hada
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We feel it deeply –
this helpless feeling
that we cannot save
anything worth saving
save our voice
raised in praise of beauty
the goodness of life –
the feeling we get
driving 285 south
Santa Fe to Clines Corner
on a bright August morning,
the various shades
of green mingled
on the caprock,
the rust-colored arroyos
sunflowers rising yellow
proud and primal
in ultimate protest.
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