In the garden. Summer’s end. Evening. On a bench.
The second highest tower burns in the west.
The night wind has risen and with the rake
I begin to compose a poem in the sand:
We are destructive, and friends’ blood
is as thin as water to us.
Can I ask God or man why this is so?
It seems relatively easy to be good.
Like the slaughterer’s knife
we are always in the right.
I ask you again, God or man.
It seems so difficult to fully give way to strife.
We destroy, but who else sings on
about turning the other cheek to the oppressor–
And under our jackets we can hardly hide
the newly acquired weapon.
In the garden. Summer’s end. Evening. I rise from the bench
The darkness has eclipsed the last of the towers.
I simply say farewell to the emptiness
and in the darkness trample on my poem written in the sand.
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