Sins, a poem

 Sins

The sins of my father are not my sins
but sins none the less. I
Forget them only to repeat them,
hide them from my children to see them
sin in turn. What  apathy 
can save me? What blind eye can I turn?

The hubris of tyrants makes each fall
in turn, but first we raise them up.
On the shields of the army,
we raise them, on the shoulders of
the workers. Yes, and on the backs
and hungry blood of each of us.

I can not lose myself here, drown
tomorrow in hypnotic seas;
each wave returns me to my shores,
insistent sand, a border to all
that seems real. Perhaps it is.
Perhaps our sins lie over there.

Stephen Brooke ©2025