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| Illustration by Barry Blitt (from the New Yorker) |
…deep within the caverns
underground
Or in the stars of death,
spinning in space;
War is woven in the dreams
of hollow men.
Iliads spill out of crooked
looms.
Putinista’s seek the sons of
Omeros
Who sing of warriors as
idiots and fools.
They hate the fact
Their fearful verses drown
their battle-crys,
Make burning pyres of all
their vacant flags,
And tear their uniforms to
tumbling rags.
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