Militarism gathered us here, nightly, that this paradise
Might become essential for reasons we fail to see
From these, our untenured positions. The tin god
Ushers the downpour into place, avowing
“Hope is not but an organ removed,
Unnecessary for the manifestation of dreams.”
The kitchen rumbles. “Dreams are made
Out of grief forgone: the heart is always the last to heed.”
Time’s brass buckles are being shined. The lonely
Have gone vicious, are rising to the head of the progress.
It frightens me, the emptying plaza, this hysterical parade.
I do intend to seek the stampede when all this mourning
Has gone to the palace of understanding.
Even the peacemakers want their kingship. No one is blessed.