Plundered (an)Them III: All Is

[from the French La Marseillaise by Claude-Joseph Rouget de Lisle in 1792]

“All on our lore –
starve on our land,”

sang an elegant Eve.

“Tend us, ages,
Muses old:
I’ve no brass pages;

Arm its form,

arch, arch Sun,

I’m pure. . . ill. . .”

Our Sacred

tried us out –

no brave nurse

saved our peace.

Our tale

accents
questions

“Ye form all,
O arch arch Sun --
save no ill.”