icons of the sun
To switch climates is not to switch allegiances. We drove them out of the temples, the money lenders
The souls of the murdered did not die at all.
The land around the Mediterranean bloomed
With blood remembered by the poets sporadically
The simmering of the sea this November morning
Supposes war in the east will lack the vigor to stain
The hot sea red as the ghosts of unghosted crusaders
Take on the vague stink of sulky tattooed teens in the west
Who must take up the burden of the seventh generation.