The hunger for a purity of purpose,
if not the harder purity of heart,
the fanatic stroll along the fringe with a clean
conscience, righteous anger ever at a surplus.
Such a small thing, to slaughter those between
ourselves and our enemies, who stroll their own part
of the playground ; our opposites, our twins.
All are made debtors to the sins
we blind men choose, in choosing death.
Laughing voices whisper from the Land of Nod
what we howl back in rude translation.
The cruel lamb tastes the dying falcon’s breath,
restraint is shown through silence and starvation
and a fool ascribes his coronation not to men but God.