and goes on for so long,
as though confessing
to the air. You would stand still and listen,
note how the dry falling snow
dies into the rest of itself,
and for a minute your cold heart
would quiver . I wish you could see
each morning, the red-headed woodpecker
knocking against the bark,
how safe he is from all reasoning.
Paul Lake
THE AGE OF TERROR
No thunder across the steppes, no hoard of Huns–
The rat-tat-tat of automatic guns
Rattles our quiet. On a downtown street
Of any capital where four roads meet
A statesman lies sprawled out on the cross roads–
Or turns a key: his limousine explodes,
And footfalls echo down the corridor
Of history, where no ambassador
Or minicam can follow.
Blow your horn,
Roland or Gabriel, there's none to warn
Who hasn't seen already on t. v.
Some minister of ideology
Proclaim that as the sun sinks in the West
No Joshua can stall, no word arrest
The earth's sure revolutions at a command .
Instead, a darkness creeps across the land;
And since it's easier to turn toward night,
To bomb a powerplant, than to shed light,
The sun fails in the West. A new Dark Age
