She is Helen and I am Troy
Endless clashing silver arcs of men and metal
Evening before the blood and dust spray begins to settle
Momentum builds and fills the fields with fires
The monasteries are dark and crowned with broken spires
The wise men have hidden themselves away
In the city of lock and key
Endless empty whitewashed streets
And knives silent waiting
Anticipating, your every mood
Trust no soft cloth and motherly smile
The knives are like steel thorns
On the giant branches of the streets
Under everything
Here we love and trust the knives we can see
For at least they hide nothing
Outside the city of lock and key
Woods of willow
Serves as highways for the returning dead
Immense armoured caterpillars
Ferrying bodies back to the newly wed
Where are the soft days and the soft ways?
Where once stood a fountain bubbling
Now stands a white pillar of rock
It is a mark of battle distance
Not a battle in itself
But merely a signifier of battles past
A reminder in stone
An obscene record of pain
For reasons impossible to explain
The stream is gone
Passing warriors have reshaped the land
Nothing has remained untouched
Not even the smallest and most fragile of things
Have escaped the many marching feet of conceit
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home