Most of them are so young as they march by.
Each takes a book and throws it on the fire.
They think this purifies them of desire
no more to lie in bed alone and cry
or worse to cry with with some soft blonde to hear
perhaps to hold them close which would be worst
not knowing why they weep. At least at first.
Sooner or later things become quite clear
Or would, but there are no more books to read
to tell them who they are. And so they burn
and do not know for whom it is they yearn.
Perhaps they meet him. Shoot him in the head.
A thin-lipped man is there to supervise,
no lust or pleasure in his pebble eyes.