I see, I see
The next decade and a half,
Till the absolute order you court with you is done,
I see the culled, gleaned roses of mediocrity.
I see the thin grass of a wasteland come.
Speak to me, you spineless shadow of a
Athens that never was; now, living on bread,
Is this the last stand of a postmodernist Achilles,
Or, do the blossoms bear best when the land is dead?
A little tommy tank passes, goggled soldier with a head.
I see, I see the
Next 10-15 years, they’ve come today,
The way they were played, the way they returned
Day before the day before yesterday.
The caterpillars that grind as they carry your tank
Lay crushed, decomposed corpses all along the soft bank
And between the banks flows the water
From the hills to the sea; so, that it may fall into the ocean
Somewhere around Trincomalee. The trees will stand, till dead,
For even as they stand dead-like they slumber. Do forget my name,
O’ Place, but do not forget my number.