What? could they not wait? Justice always outs in time;
What? since Abel, not enough blood? Soils do not leave
Themselves a choice in these matters; mothers grieve
As doctors weave solutions; where once their limbs aligned,
They are no more. And, for a bowl of soup this Esau
Yields at ought his heritage? Who isn’t fooled in the dimming eyes of Isaac
In the aftermath? Reconciliation, you say? Can a Caveat
To destiny be forgiven, and where the wound is raw
Can any skin but the tougher scars be grown from what is sown?
And when the perpetrators contemplate their last actions,
The rupture of the children; the bodies, the lasting hideous imagination
Of that day along the Ides of April for which no religous idyll can atone.
O Crimea now, O Syria then, O America ever vigilant!
O streets and markets free but never far from the malignant.