Troubadours

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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Suntanned instruments
that circled Europe
on summer roads
yesterday, sounding truly
into hideous corners of
tubercular cities
from the Steppes
down to the Ardennes
now hang high above
us, smoke-brown
bronzed and sunburned
like the old-time
troubadours themselves
removed from the world
completely out-of-reach
dead and gone to heaven
in a lute-shaped boat.






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