Monday, July 21, 2008

Notes on the Margin


Still the fire burns
And claims more and more
Across the land
In an anarchy of blood
That knows no end.
Who plots? Who wins? Why?

The answer my friend
Is nowhere in the wind.

Who knows what burns
In silence and dark
That suddenly explodes
In a carnival of death.

I know not how to feel
The anguish of those
Who scatter into death
With sanctified hate.

I only know the screams
That out of rubble rise;
The agony on the faces
Smudged with dirt and blood
Which knows no consolation
In here or hereafter.

I don’t see a jot of holy or just
Only a chaos of unmeaning loss.


Arya | Sui Generis said...

I liked this one. more than that, I liked the background. more than that, I like you.

Above all, I like myself.

It's not a poem. But nobody will take a sunbath if it is!!!

Robert said...

the jabbing questions every young citizen feels ... and grows old to realise we are thus doomed. the Judgemnet day is here.