The war’s cold exclusion has stripped out love.

Two years on, I stroll among the Bruegels;

The pictures dazzle in their joyless way,

Reflecting life’s treadmill of chores, horrors,

Its accommodations and its intrigues,

Its little stratagems for making do,

Not forgetting massacres and revenge.

I’ve read about the gas used at the front

To flush out choking soldiers marked for death.

Rabbits in the headlights, like Icarus:

Gone, before anyone even noticed.

It’s strange that works from centuries ago

Can still raise thoughts of anger and disgust.

As long as art survives, there is still hope.

 

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