Mindless in the madness of war
caught in the maddening scheme of Death
in the perfect strategy of defeat
they hauled the heavy armoury
across steep mountains and gaping gorges
and glaciers of blood.
Was it a pilgrimage to heaven they set out on
or a campaign against the Almighty
drowning in incest, breeding sin
and yet still solid as a marble bust.
And thus we too set out to besiege the word
and when we are certain of our spoil
it flees from our grasp like Rome
How painful then the return might be—
small victims of the attempt, and not the triumph?