Talk Martine Bigos

Talk

The two dozen hours remain at hand For voice and ear to merge as she rests still, And chance fails to diffuse or lose command Till Birnam Wood reaches Dunsinane Hill. But corps of knave can shift the talks of fate, For ill and wretched since the age of Cain, And though the deck was dealt upon your plate, There’s few with pride for sense to rid disdain. Your lips may touch the sounds you claim to seek As potent limbs stalk through thickets of chaff. Diluted truth trips down the forest’s creek, Its sweetness aids the weary as a staff.

And so favor will tip the scale enough

As your stiff woodlands come to mount the bluff. Martine Bigos