|
Forty-Four Years After Stalingrad
A few of the dead trees are still alive.
Several photographs of twisted minds
are still developing in cement statuary
sculpted by hot steel and TNT,
and no imagination whatsoever.
How warm the earth grows
without our assistance.
How long the days become
all by themselves.
The harmless box of mementos, harboring
ghosts in the colorful fungus of basements,
has not been opened for a multitude of springs;
while the bones of a million heroes
are slowly germinating a new crop of
nightmares.
The landscape in early morning
is just another painting without bombers.
Most of the elite and riff-raff
are gathered here peering through the dust,
their fingerprints all over the walls,
happy about the simple joys of life,
anxious to visit the right places,
wherever it is that peace and glory dwell.
How cold the evening grows
all by itself.
How short the days become
without any help.
|
