Liberty weeps and the eagle is dead,
What more is left for there to be said?
My grief becomes a drawing down of all the shades
As if no one’s home, and the bed is unmade.
I lie here sleepless, in covers tangled,
My spirit in the maw of darkness mangled,
Yet hope is a lamp in one window glowing
In a cabin in a field on a night when it’s snowing.
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