For every poet gas flame in their throats
Who scramble scrawled last verses in the mud
Each child whose flower blasted in the bud,
Musician detonation deafened notes
Nurses their wounds unbandaged and no bed
To make for them except a random grave
Civilian dead whom voting working praying did not save.
This is the day we’re silent for the dead.
Whom praying cannot help. And there is gold
In vaults somewhere that’s smeared with so much blood.
Some planner might have stopped it – yes they could –
Yet profited from calculation cold.
Colder than all those dead. Let memory
Be rage as well as sorrowsympathy.