Not All Who Cry "Lord, Lord!" (III)
I sing of the hollow,of coins worn smooth by forgetting,
of ballots swallowed by silence,
of the nameless who lie without weight,
of the sleeper beneath the pale store-light,
of the many who blur into one
Search the word, O seeker –
there are riches beneath:
silver pressed from darkness,
gold shaped by fire,
the soft breath of hidden craft,
and the white stones of the children
marking the path through loss
Flame takes the witch.
Wind breaks the evil stepmother’s wings
Three frigid funeral home bitches of Shitville
rise like black birds of rain,
drunk on sorrow’s bitter cup
And the bearer of the banner stands,
eyes clear as morning,
wrapped in the sign of the people –
saint of steadfast will,
resting in the hush of victory
She opens the houses of hoarded wealth
into shelter and bread.
She bends the mighty into service.
She lowers the proud who guard the gates
She scatters silver like seed among the poor.
She sends the hard-hearted far from the land
Then the fearless are summoned.
The full are made empty.
The high are brought low.
And the earth answers with thunder
Kingdoms are weighed in the balance.
Fields are traded for blood.
We happily trade Hungary & Slovakia
for Ukraine
And the world remembers the cost of power
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-02-24 at 11:35
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