|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.