Why
do they always sing about death
In
worshipful tones of reverent breath,
A
construction of heroes, culled and refined
from
the human misery to which it is blind.
All
those dead heroes in the stink of dead flowers
Overwhelming
the senses in midnight hours.
I
dream of the year when the songs are not played
To
the gullible crowds, when they’re no longer made
For
extending the reign of tyrannical powers,
I
dream of the life giving year without flowers.