Sta.sh
Lovers, hand in hand, dead on a park bench,
His eyes on her face, but scrunched in pain
And rolled backward slightly, as if looking to God as well;
Her eyes closed and peaceful seeming.
The observer might have thought her dreaming,
Ready to awaken, not merely a mortal shell.
The observer... but who was there to see the twain
Or gag at the stench?
On the walk lay the body of an old man.
His cane, which had a swan's neck and head
Carved into the handle, lay beside him, cracked.
A rotting newspaper beside his right hand
Would not help the observer understand:
It might have seemed the city was attacked.
But no observer stood and to another said,
"Was this all part of the Divine plan?"
And here or there the scattered hundreds lay,
As they lay in every city, every country, every corner of man's domain,
Like dead bugs around the zapper's blue glow.
And here or there the living children cowered
In places that were by monsters slowly scowered,
Sleeping with lights and dreams of the imago.
How can an observer begin to explain
To those who don't remember the way before it was this way?
Look to the East; the sun rises as ever,
But now the skyline of metropolis is dark;
Still and silent, the busses and trollies.
In the river, some boats slip
Their moorings and make the last trip
To sea, forever escaping man's bustle and follies,
And an observer, just one, stands in the park,
Pondering boats and escaping forever.
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