The year is 1939
and in this glen
in central Asia
the drifting clouds appease the eyes
and none here sees
in these fractal holographies
the klaxons rousing millions
to a dim and deepening roar
though the red horizon
coagulates with tanks and soldiers
and toward the dawn a rising sun
threatens conflagration
we stand here, apace
and wonder, knowing history,
if we might detect a tremble in the earth
to match our minds
the butterflies flit and fall
where they may here
and we are unable even to die
for anything beyond ourselves
but must muster for the harder problem
of purposing ourselves
apart from all the other’s needs.
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