Classic Poem

Rote: a raw sad noise not your own voice, racket
Of a peculiarly articulated grief
On account of the woeful slaughter of some unimportant stranger
At a barbaric place where three low roads meet;

Obscene giggle, chatter
From the notorious dormitory of hierodules and screwballs
Loose, careening bestially through an unmonitored night
Brandishing outlandish wine-dark artificial genitalia;

An unprompted something from the old throat of a mother
All in mourning black among nomad orphans
Packing up to move to winter pasture
At the far edge of a province indifferently governed by a pickpocket;

Or: nothing if not the cry of an infant outraged,
Naked at noon among aloof infidels
Who lack any notion of magic or religion
And have never yet mastered the use of salt or metal,

No anthem but these words sung over and over on two notes:
Growing old, going home, the same, the same.

Rote: a raw sad noise not your own voice, racket
Of a peculiarly articulated grief
On account of the woeful slaughter of some unimportant stranger
At a barbaric place where three low roads meet;

Obscene giggle, chatter
From the notorious dormitory of hierodules and screwballs
Loose, careening bestially through an unmonitored night
Brandishing outlandish wine-dark artificial genitalia;

An unprompted something from the old throat of a mother
All in mourning black among nomad orphans
Packing up to move to winter pasture
At the far edge of a province indifferently governed by a pickpocket;

Or: nothing if not the cry of an infant outraged,
Naked at noon among aloof infidels
Who lack any notion of magic or religion
And have never yet mastered the use of salt or metal,

No anthem but these words sung over and over on two notes:
Growing old, going home, the same, the same.