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The Sick Sycamores

And vengeance from the rising tides / Could volley heads of men / And then return them to the sands.

A black-and-white pattern of contour lines and village scenes between the branches of a tree.

I’ve heard it said
Among the creeks and lowly hanging leaves
And beneath the mighty bough that bears
A hardship in its hands—

That as it fell, it was not heard
As was the sounding drill
But in the morning, all its sons were
Weeping on my windowsill.

For Time could turn us all to dust
And vengeance from the rising tides
Could volley heads of men
And then return them to the sands.

And yet what ground remains for us
To tend to and to till
Has only made for buildings,
Or for bodies bent on staying still.

But having glanced upon
My plants, it struck me then to see
That all the stems were standing
Up and straightening their strands.

And now they lie in wait
As if to spring upon and kill—
And in return, repentant water
From my eyes began to spill.

Farrago's magazine cover - Edition Two 2023


What would you find if you walked through the looking glass into another time? Why are all the plastic googly eyes you spilt over your bedroom floor following your every move? The entire universe and beyond is your disco ball of scintillating possibility.

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