(no subject)
THE MORNING AFTER THE WAR
The sun throws its handful of rays onto a railway station,
a tattered shirt flaps on a line, a boy
emerges from the bomb shelter and kicks a ball
down the empty street. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go.
The dictator’s body has been burned along with his wife’s -
a wisp of smoke rises from behind the palace. His mistress
has left the country. She’s on a plane now, heading east.
The operator sits down once more at the terrible switchboard,
moving her hands idly over the darkened keys.
The propaganda minister has lost the ability to speak.
The sun throws its handful of rays onto a railway station,
a tattered shirt flaps on a line, a boy
emerges from the bomb shelter and kicks a ball
down the empty street. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go.
The dictator’s body has been burned along with his wife’s -
a wisp of smoke rises from behind the palace. His mistress
has left the country. She’s on a plane now, heading east.
The operator sits down once more at the terrible switchboard,
moving her hands idly over the darkened keys.
The propaganda minister has lost the ability to speak.