Because his words were the
candlelight in their tears,
the people of his years,
hardened in their land,
bowed under his dark sky,
he under his question, why?
Why am I still waiting
for His answer?
What is my place
in this, their place?
Forever on his knees he asked
again, and again,
why?
To which, I reply,
who else could? But
R S Thomas
Well said Jim I'll protest with you.
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