THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 8
They have the guns and money. And the power.
Do not assume that this is not their hour
to gloat, stamp on each face and break each heart
that cares and weeping sees the world decay
music and kindness. They won't understand
why victory seems to crumble in their hand.
We'll die in pain. And quite soon so will they,
Our only consolation that we told them so
Cold comfort of correct analysis
inadeqately argued. Synthesis
Perhaps the last sad true thing that they'll know.
Death's dialectic. Ashes of our brains
Mingle with theirs. Hot winds sweep empty plains.