I am sick of the voices of heroes!
They cry from maniacal graves:
“Why do you hurry and turn away—
You who are warmed by the sun?
“Once a year, on a ‘solemn occasion,’
You come for public mourning.
Officers offer orisons.
Politicians ply for votes.
“And we lie here in the dank cold
In Earth’s forlorn cathedral
Year after year recalling
Lips we did not kiss and love,
Eyes that did not see our eyes,
And the eyes of enemies we did not know.”
Be quiet! Be still!
Under the stones, under the raw sod,
Worry the worms, worry the casket’s
Satin, worry the groaning Earth,
Turning around on its axis,
Five billion years and counting.