There is no rule written in an enormous ledger by an acolyte angel
that says a poet will write every day until death. The uncivil war will end
according to absence of such dictate when humours start to break down
cellular walls and cancer spreads overcoming defences of heart, lungs,
kidneys, gut, brain, in no particular order, as aforementioned parts
succumb to constant hammering of shells, fits of barking orders to kill,
and distant turning away from disaster, beating breasts, while asking
focus groups, how can we intervene in a sovereign nation, does this
particular wilful disregard for human life meet your standard, fellow
citizens and friends? Pure fantasy. Nobody consulted the man in Peoria
or the soothsayer shuffling along to the bead shop on Main Street. There
was no attempt to interfere with ordinary irritations of Western peoples
living in their democracies, or Chinese factory workers assembling sound
cards. Father or politburo know best which is to donate or lend fighter jets
in return for port concession and road-building, forest-felling contracts and
much more promised also to the other great power of the Indian Ocean, but
how to determine the amount any government can sell in order to kill in peace,
to eliminate its cancer with a terrifying dose of radiation, to keep the ground hot and
de-mine it slowly over decades while population dies off or sympathizers abroad
tire of protest marches on anniversary days. Human societies are slow to heal and
nurse resentments over decades and centuries. Welcome to hurt passed down to
children and grandchildren, to unpaid crimes, suppressed anger, cold war.
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