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Poem: Uprising
(By Gwendolen Wold as appeared in the September 1996 Bolt)

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The sun beats down
turning the tent
into merciless inferno,
reaching into coolers,
and melting all within.
Up on the hill
it glints off armor
as warriors fight heat
more than each other.
Their arms rise
and fall
more slowly with each stroke,
until finally the sun
wins the day.

But the day must end.

Slowly the sun wearies
and slips
from it's perch,
falling down behind horizon.
Darkness creeps into camp
bringing blessed coolness,
unsticking sweaty dresses,
touching fighters with fingers
of relief.
Voices down-trodden during day
now rise in song,
and revelers start
to move, and dance,
in celebration that the only
thing now beating
is the drums.

By Lady Gwendolen Wold

 Page last updated 12/15/99