Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead.
Be iron-willed, still; tacit as a stopped clock tower
Gagged by siege machines, cogs seized,
Hour-hands held by orphaned soldiers,
Guns cocked in hardened grief. Lief-limbed and pliant,
Count time until the triggers un-tense, the bells released –
Breathe under breath. Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead,
The cortege still warm with splendid consensus, the mutes still decked
In black hatbands, hanging around the departed,
Patiently pining for their black penny,
Pouting. Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead,
Lest words break the surface of sound -
Be compromised, contained, overcome by cowed tones
Besieging the casket; leave unspeakable truth outside.
Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead, though we bawled
Liked beasts when better men were buried, and the books rewritten
To blacklist them – that too was bellowed from braver lungs.
But let us not speak ill of foul things deceased,
Though the stones exult and even playful airs pluck
The telegraph strings like an Aeolian harp. Let us not speak
At all - lest an inalienable right to rejoice endanger the order
Of service, and the circus horses turn from their mournful course.
Let us not speak, no - not now, not yet. Let history keep feasts
For such good nights. Til then, go gently the chorus of worms.
Be iron-willed, still; tacit as a stopped clock tower
Gagged by siege machines, cogs seized,
Hour-hands held by orphaned soldiers,
Guns cocked in hardened grief. Lief-limbed and pliant,
Count time until the triggers un-tense, the bells released –
Breathe under breath. Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead,
The cortege still warm with splendid consensus, the mutes still decked
In black hatbands, hanging around the departed,
Patiently pining for their black penny,
Pouting. Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead,
Lest words break the surface of sound -
Be compromised, contained, overcome by cowed tones
Besieging the casket; leave unspeakable truth outside.
Let us not speak ill of the ill-lived dead, though we bawled
Liked beasts when better men were buried, and the books rewritten
To blacklist them – that too was bellowed from braver lungs.
But let us not speak ill of foul things deceased,
Though the stones exult and even playful airs pluck
The telegraph strings like an Aeolian harp. Let us not speak
At all - lest an inalienable right to rejoice endanger the order
Of service, and the circus horses turn from their mournful course.
Let us not speak, no - not now, not yet. Let history keep feasts
For such good nights. Til then, go gently the chorus of worms.