| On the nature of civilisation: |
| Memories are short. Scarcely two centuries have passed Since freedom�s celebrated libation To the tune of drums and fife and gunpowder blast � Only slightly more than twice the years rationed Out carefully, dearly, to the glorious revelation Of His swift sword, of unity at any cost Etched on the hearts of a whole generation lost And emancipation papers with their lifeblood embossed. Children of an impetuous god! you could not let The issue die, any more than we, with our two founding Nations, and the original buried in the golf set Somewhere, surfacing only for headlines rounding One summer, and then again lost. �Observe the bounding Lines!� we insist, and again, �Arr�t!� Demanding obedience in two official-sounding Tongues � forgetting as quickly the broadsword whet By the lightnings of that ancient debt. So much blood spilled to honour, such screams Pierced by the cracks of righteous musketballs! Two wrongs don�t make a right, and yet I dream, Dream of a world where the worst brawls Would be healed in a moment, as in Odin�s halls; Where the question of the lesser of two evils Would not have to be addressed, where no sparrow falls And no man�s word pales against the scarlet snow � But I forget. We are more civilised now. � And sophisticated! the great advances made In technology cannot be understated: Surgical bombing! live video coverage! to the fade And cut! The Cable Network news god forgive us if it grated Just a little � but it was highly rated � While they ignored a little republic�s plea � Perhaps I am unjust. But I cannot see Our southern neighbours as blithely letting California free. Twenty score people too sick to pray Tossed upon a busy desk in the media blitz; You�d think someone would notice � where were they? But let some prominent tycoon call it quits Driving every producer for miles to his wits� End � they call it stress burnout around here � Struggling to make the story before the deadline hits � But that other tale, which no one wants to hear: Bury it on the back page, maybe it will disappear. Just like the trees, hectares of newsprint lines Sacrificed for the sake of the greater greed: Play-by-plays of protesters bearing signs While the bright young green of saplings must recede Before the redder harvest of this year�s seed � This spring, a wilder crop was planted, will sprout Lines of language, of worship, bordered each by his own creed � It�s all the same God! Thomas, can you still doubt The lines you started? But do the lines shut them out � or us in? |
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| � 2003 Kyle Altis. All rights reserved. |
| Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it. - George Santayana I've got news for Mr. Santayana: we're doomed to repeat the past no matter what. That's what it is to be alive. - Kurt Vonnegut |