Boots in the mud. Sweet smell that catches sour
back of the throat. There was a churchyard here
headstones bulldozed to rubble. And now we're
back in the mire again. Assassin hour
mistake cascade, the trains will run on time
delivering to death the surplus young
old statesmen speeches flickering their tongue
fine words smeared broken walls with blood and grime
I use old language. It's that time again
Not make it new. For that would be a lie
I am too old. It is the young who die
gas-blistered shitting, screaming with the pain.
Angel of death is back – this last I sing.
I hear the beating of his broken wing.