Poems by John Giza
Cossayuna Nights
--a sestina
We have lived here for, what to us, seems like forever--
Upstate New York, where only the seasons change.
And even those, they seem to pass unnoticed.
Each day is buried like bones in quiet pastures
Of evening. Over the lake, bats fly by instinct,
Winged thunder trembling the night skies of Cossayuna.
The city folk come to Cossayuna
Expecting to extend their lives forever;
Guess some form of urban obverse instinct
To trade on the country’s quiet stock exchange.
The evenings you can find them in the pastures
Pointing to some star they’ve never noticed.
Coming upon them quiet and unnoticed,
Their vibrant blood trembles like Cossayuna
Lake’s rippled surface. In the pasture’s
Silence, which they have dreamed about forever,
Their busy lives are permanently changed.
This night, apart from all others, they learn about instinct.
Fear of the dark has long been human instinct,
Though in the city this seems to go unnoticed--
Save for the occasional thug who kills for change.
The nights are dark as death in Cossayuna
And between dusk and dawn there is a forever
Feeling for the emptiness of pastures.
It is now, now when they gather in the pastures,
They call to Earth down years of human instinct.
Long thought to be just folklore and forever
Couched in fiction, with their last breath they notice
The truth beneath the folk of Cossayuna:
We sleep by day and by each sunset change
Into the Earth’s most discrete creatures--change
Without feeling or choice. We venture to the pastures
To partake of cattle blood. In Cossayuna
Humans vanish not by accident, but instinct.
Visitors to the lake would barely notice
The reddish hue which it has held forever.
They scarcely notice the vampires of Cossayuna.
It is our instinct to blend among the pastures;
To live forever, the years and nights unchanged.
Cossayuna Nights
--a sestina
We have lived here for, what to us, seems like forever--
Upstate New York, where only the seasons change.
And even those, they seem to pass unnoticed.
Each day is buried like bones in quiet pastures
Of evening. Over the lake, bats fly by instinct,
Winged thunder trembling the night skies of Cossayuna.
The city folk come to Cossayuna
Expecting to extend their lives forever;
Guess some form of urban obverse instinct
To trade on the country’s quiet stock exchange.
The evenings you can find them in the pastures
Pointing to some star they’ve never noticed.
Coming upon them quiet and unnoticed,
Their vibrant blood trembles like Cossayuna
Lake’s rippled surface. In the pasture’s
Silence, which they have dreamed about forever,
Their busy lives are permanently changed.
This night, apart from all others, they learn about instinct.
Fear of the dark has long been human instinct,
Though in the city this seems to go unnoticed--
Save for the occasional thug who kills for change.
The nights are dark as death in Cossayuna
And between dusk and dawn there is a forever
Feeling for the emptiness of pastures.
It is now, now when they gather in the pastures,
They call to Earth down years of human instinct.
Long thought to be just folklore and forever
Couched in fiction, with their last breath they notice
The truth beneath the folk of Cossayuna:
We sleep by day and by each sunset change
Into the Earth’s most discrete creatures--change
Without feeling or choice. We venture to the pastures
To partake of cattle blood. In Cossayuna
Humans vanish not by accident, but instinct.
Visitors to the lake would barely notice
The reddish hue which it has held forever.
They scarcely notice the vampires of Cossayuna.
It is our instinct to blend among the pastures;
To live forever, the years and nights unchanged.
The Fresh Cadaver’s Song
--a sonnet
After I died, I went to sleep in chains;
drowsy infant nursed in the walls of sleep.
The soul moved on, but here my flesh remains,
packed in ice, as fresh as meat will keep.
I sing the body dormant, empty shell,
stone left behind the glacial wall of death.
There is a comfort in the cold, a spell
holds me enraptured with each absent breath.
I sing the body useful and endure
the iron slabs, the eager disarrange
of favorite bones and tissue, forfeiture
of which brings life to others through exchange.
The scalpel breaks the skin with skilled delight.
Against cold lips the gathering of light.
Elegy Written in the Gilded Age
"We are born in a Pullman house. We are fed from a Pullman shop, taught in a Pullman school, catechized in the Pullman church and when we die we shall be buried in a Pullman cemetery and go to a Pullman hell."
- Pullman employee on life in Pullman town, 1883
The fire engines piss their lives away
answering false alarms from a local prankster.
The landlord knows there is no bomb. Today
a plume of black smoke tops the heater.
The air grows stiff. Old women creep and crouch
beneath burst pipes, loose wires, ceiling rot.
Another chunk of plaster on the couch--
the couple upstairs shout and drop a lot.
New tar boils on the roof. Old toilets flush
into the sink. The smell of urine crooks
through the walls, (mistaken for fried fish).
Outside, brick of dry-blood red overlooks
each window molding. Movements down the drains
betray guests secretive and fleet.
The prostitute across the hall complains
about commotion rising from the street.
Not quite a country churchyard, unmistaken,
one finds uncommon peace within these walls.
The dead man lies on a throw rug. Bacon
sizzles. Cracks run down halls.
"We are born in a Pullman house. We are fed from a Pullman shop, taught in a Pullman school, catechized in the Pullman church and when we die we shall be buried in a Pullman cemetery and go to a Pullman hell."
- Pullman employee on life in Pullman town, 1883
The fire engines piss their lives away
answering false alarms from a local prankster.
The landlord knows there is no bomb. Today
a plume of black smoke tops the heater.
The air grows stiff. Old women creep and crouch
beneath burst pipes, loose wires, ceiling rot.
Another chunk of plaster on the couch--
the couple upstairs shout and drop a lot.
New tar boils on the roof. Old toilets flush
into the sink. The smell of urine crooks
through the walls, (mistaken for fried fish).
Outside, brick of dry-blood red overlooks
each window molding. Movements down the drains
betray guests secretive and fleet.
The prostitute across the hall complains
about commotion rising from the street.
Not quite a country churchyard, unmistaken,
one finds uncommon peace within these walls.
The dead man lies on a throw rug. Bacon
sizzles. Cracks run down halls.
The Fortune Teller
No hell but a hell would come, Mother said
if I should wind up missing, turn up dead,
and off I went, a pocket full of lead.
Spread wide in arc, a universe of scoring--
rockets soaring, pinballs whizzing, ducks
shot out of air.
Out of Order, smoking urinals
tattooed women, tilt, worry
two destroyers sank and then a snack.
Disguised behind a purple portiere
lost behind a leather gang of youth
she waits, uncouth,
within her booth of glass and gold.
How smooth the wax which seals the cracks
upon the face of the mechanized gypsy crone.
By deft design, half human, half machine
and lovelier still, her bracelets and her rings
itch to the eyes.
Her oiled, bronze skin, serpentine lips,
beckon to treasures culled within:
I shall tell your fortune for a quarter.
Powered by old-fashioned cogs and springs
her servomotor grinds in motion skills
benumbed by wheeled
emotion. Soft, she calls me near.
Below a groan of twisting sorrow
comes an envelope addressed to "Dear"
Inside a note, also addressed to "Dear"
You shall live long, riches, full love find--
You need not ‘do’
But ‘be.’ For more detailed advice
Meditate upon your question.
Kindly deposit another quarter.
No hell but a hell would come, Mother said
if I should wind up missing, turn up dead,
and off I went, a pocket full of lead.
Spread wide in arc, a universe of scoring--
rockets soaring, pinballs whizzing, ducks
shot out of air.
Out of Order, smoking urinals
tattooed women, tilt, worry
two destroyers sank and then a snack.
Disguised behind a purple portiere
lost behind a leather gang of youth
she waits, uncouth,
within her booth of glass and gold.
How smooth the wax which seals the cracks
upon the face of the mechanized gypsy crone.
By deft design, half human, half machine
and lovelier still, her bracelets and her rings
itch to the eyes.
Her oiled, bronze skin, serpentine lips,
beckon to treasures culled within:
I shall tell your fortune for a quarter.
Powered by old-fashioned cogs and springs
her servomotor grinds in motion skills
benumbed by wheeled
emotion. Soft, she calls me near.
Below a groan of twisting sorrow
comes an envelope addressed to "Dear"
Inside a note, also addressed to "Dear"
You shall live long, riches, full love find--
You need not ‘do’
But ‘be.’ For more detailed advice
Meditate upon your question.
Kindly deposit another quarter.
Vision of the Madonna Weeping
Upon the Shoulder of
Route 9
-- a terza rima
A desolate strip of asphalt divides the land,--
right, Connecticut resumes her southward journey,
while to the left, lush Haddam’s forests stand.
A phantom fog dominates this valley
tonight. Low beams lap uncertain sight,
the broken lines of white infinity.
Images in a mirror without light:
a liquor store, a school, a dead end street;
repent attention from the drowsy night.
How molecules make man and this conceit
of mist against my window—to defrost
this Latin Mass of poetry--effete
tenor and vehicle in the gray exhaust
of clouds in contact with the ground. Route 9
North or South, no difference when you’re lost.
I see her on the shoulder, the Divine
Madonna, holding a lily, weeping--
and goodness was the last thought on my mind.
Upon the Shoulder of
Route 9
-- a terza rima
A desolate strip of asphalt divides the land,--
right, Connecticut resumes her southward journey,
while to the left, lush Haddam’s forests stand.
A phantom fog dominates this valley
tonight. Low beams lap uncertain sight,
the broken lines of white infinity.
Images in a mirror without light:
a liquor store, a school, a dead end street;
repent attention from the drowsy night.
How molecules make man and this conceit
of mist against my window—to defrost
this Latin Mass of poetry--effete
tenor and vehicle in the gray exhaust
of clouds in contact with the ground. Route 9
North or South, no difference when you’re lost.
I see her on the shoulder, the Divine
Madonna, holding a lily, weeping--
and goodness was the last thought on my mind.
Video of a Young Lincoln
--In Memoriam of Matthew Shepard
PLAY--
Young boy braving a strong wind
against the open sky of the American
schoolyard. Fifth grade History class.
On his head a stovepipe hat,
black cape flapping, faux beard
The audio breaks, capturing the fragmented
line “…these dead cannot have died in vain.”
STOP:
He cannot be not Lincoln, but he is
Matthew.
Puberty and love gather on his horizon.
Today’s lesson is one of democracy.
To the West, someone is building a fence.
News Article:
NEW YORK, Feb. 14, 2008 - Ten years after Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered because of his sexual orientation, a 15-year-old gay California student is brain dead after a student allegedly shot him because of his sexual orientation and gender expression.
--In Memoriam of Matthew Shepard
PLAY--
Young boy braving a strong wind
against the open sky of the American
schoolyard. Fifth grade History class.
On his head a stovepipe hat,
black cape flapping, faux beard
The audio breaks, capturing the fragmented
line “…these dead cannot have died in vain.”
STOP:
He cannot be not Lincoln, but he is
Matthew.
Puberty and love gather on his horizon.
Today’s lesson is one of democracy.
To the West, someone is building a fence.
News Article:
NEW YORK, Feb. 14, 2008 - Ten years after Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered because of his sexual orientation, a 15-year-old gay California student is brain dead after a student allegedly shot him because of his sexual orientation and gender expression.
Starlight Mints
I remember the day Grandmother gasped
and dropped the bowl of Starlight Mints.
The Big Bang of my youth produced
a linoleum galaxy of glass
and candy, red and white whirls
in wondrous cellophane
stranded between glistening shards.
“Be careful, don’t touch that,”
she bitterly cautioned as my hand
reached for the nearest
pigtailed pinwheel of crystallized
sugar. I couldn’t help myself,
I didn’t fear the rasorial edge
of hen pecked tales. Not all
glass cuts, not all light blinds.
Touting confidence in the diaphanous
wrapper, I unwound one end,
making sure every crinkle
transmitted clearly to Grandmother’s ear.
“I’m warning you…” the magnitude
of her words diminishing in
the forbidden sensation of my tongue
against the Starlight Mint.
I remember the day Grandmother gasped
and dropped the bowl of Starlight Mints.
The Big Bang of my youth produced
a linoleum galaxy of glass
and candy, red and white whirls
in wondrous cellophane
stranded between glistening shards.
“Be careful, don’t touch that,”
she bitterly cautioned as my hand
reached for the nearest
pigtailed pinwheel of crystallized
sugar. I couldn’t help myself,
I didn’t fear the rasorial edge
of hen pecked tales. Not all
glass cuts, not all light blinds.
Touting confidence in the diaphanous
wrapper, I unwound one end,
making sure every crinkle
transmitted clearly to Grandmother’s ear.
“I’m warning you…” the magnitude
of her words diminishing in
the forbidden sensation of my tongue
against the Starlight Mint.
The Jersey Song (When it’s Apple Blossom Time)
--a canzone (after Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire")
Grover Cleveland, Aaron Burr, McGreevey was the Governor,
Bud Abbott, Edwin Aldrin, Thomas Edison
Born in Newark, Ray Liotta, Hoboken, Frank Sinatra
Allen Ginsberg, Clara Barton, Love Jack Nicholson
Stephen Crane, Cape May, stuck on the Parkway
Dionne Warwick, East Orange, Port Authority
Einstein at Princeton, please help Whitney Houston
Joyce Kilmer, Walt Whitman, Avon-by-the Sea
CHORUS
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
In Orange New Jersey
O Lord have Mercy
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
We’ll make a peach of--
We’ll make a peach of
A pair.
South Orange, Lauren Hill, Jon Bon Jovi, Sayreville
Normans Mailer & Schwarzkopf, William Count Basie
Bruce Springsteen, E. Street Band, sold out at the Meadowlands
Barnegat & Brigantine, actor Kevin Spacey
Paterson has Lou Costello, no one comes from Teterboro
Passaic River, Piscopo, Admiral Halsey
New York Giants, New York Jets, on the shore they place their bets
We know Atlantic City from the game Monopoly.
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
In Orange New Jersey
O Statue of Liberty
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
We’ll make a peach of--
We’ll sure make a peach of
A pair.
Lowest rate of depression, Zagat’s names you #1
Batteries of lithium, Radios switch to F&M
Jaws attacks the Jersey shore, Lindbergh’s babe and Megan’s Law
Light bulbs, electric trains, drive-in movies in the rain
Jimmy Hoffa, Jersey Devil, Soprano’s not quite on the level
Red Oak and the Dogwood too, colors Buff and Jersey Blue
All the films of Kevin Smith, Queen Latifah, Patti Smith
How could this go on so long? New Jersey needs its own State song.
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
In Orange New Jersey
“Liberty and Prosperity”
When it’s Apple Blossom Time
We’ll make a peach of--
Someone make a peach of
A pair.
The Return of Sir Patrick Spens
--a ballad in English Common Metre
The Ladies wait in Edinburgh
Upon the king’s right knee.
“O when, O when will Sir Patrick Spens
Returneth from the sea?
“The cock maun craw, the day maun daw,
The moon maun rise aboon--
O then, O then will sir Patrick Spens
Return to claim his shoon.”
The ladies sighed and blinked their eyes
‘Til tears flowed lover’s brine.
“We keep in hope his bones are safe,
And there be more reid wine.”
The king arose with ladies’ swoon,
In blood-sore voice he said,
“Mak me a nest o’ Holland sae draw,
‘T is time we gae to bed.”
“O na sae quick,” spoke and ancient knight,
“Come to the window hence.
Wha ship be there that sail to lan’,
Gin na Sir Patrick Spens?”
“A holy rood!” straightway he stood
His gentle birth did moan:
“Mak haste, mak haste, my ladies maun
Be dighted on your own.”
“Thar be nae need, O beshrew’d king,”
The knight spoke toom and laigh,
“Sir Patrick Spens s’ guide the kye
That frae the byre did’st stray.”
“Gramercy! Guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Was na he drenched and deep?
O lang, lang did’st we pray for him,
His soul the Lord might keep.”
--a ballad in English Common Metre
The Ladies wait in Edinburgh
Upon the king’s right knee.
“O when, O when will Sir Patrick Spens
Returneth from the sea?
“The cock maun craw, the day maun daw,
The moon maun rise aboon--
O then, O then will sir Patrick Spens
Return to claim his shoon.”
The ladies sighed and blinked their eyes
‘Til tears flowed lover’s brine.
“We keep in hope his bones are safe,
And there be more reid wine.”
The king arose with ladies’ swoon,
In blood-sore voice he said,
“Mak me a nest o’ Holland sae draw,
‘T is time we gae to bed.”
“O na sae quick,” spoke and ancient knight,
“Come to the window hence.
Wha ship be there that sail to lan’,
Gin na Sir Patrick Spens?”
“A holy rood!” straightway he stood
His gentle birth did moan:
“Mak haste, mak haste, my ladies maun
Be dighted on your own.”
“Thar be nae need, O beshrew’d king,”
The knight spoke toom and laigh,
“Sir Patrick Spens s’ guide the kye
That frae the byre did’st stray.”
“Gramercy! Guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Was na he drenched and deep?
O lang, lang did’st we pray for him,
His soul the Lord might keep.”
Lunch in Morocco
"Occasionally I have a flashback to my youth. This is one occasion. Wait, what's the occasion?"
--Hank Kimball
I remember the restaurant in MoRocco
where Mom and Dad were arguing New York
and then Frank Bruni came and stole the show.
He said “Ben, is that you, eating Pork?”
And then he turned admiring eyes to Jo.
“I loved you on the London stage.” Her fork
dropped. “Oh, that was a long time ago,”
Ben said, “now meet the new Mrs. Kimball,”
(My Dad was no slouch in Vertigo).
Frank asked “I’m sure you miss the curtain call?”
“My wife,” Ben said, “does not miss all that swill
and Arnold, I mean Hank’s a gift to all.”
He wasn’t the same Frank from Blackmail.
Something had changed, he seemed to sense her life
Was nothing that belonged in Hooterville.
“We’re simple farmer folk, that’s all--my wife
has found a new voice back in Pixley County.”
You could have heard a pin drop, for the knife.
The Last Crumbs
--an Ekphrastik poem based upon the painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec
Old Woman: More bread dammit, I wish she’d bring
more bread!
Old Man: Hush your mouth, Old Woman
or they’ll throw us out again. More wine
is what we need. A free-flowing line
into our bellies will mend the mood--
Old Woman: …began
years ago: a midwife who would sing
to ease the pain; then—then the bread was fresh
and plenty came—till you, you drunken lech...
Old Man: Calm down! Enough! It’s not my fault the War
reduced me to this man you see, a poor
soul in need of comfort—Keep the dish
silent while I speak! Must you reach…
Old Woman: Shut up, you damn fool, I’ve found more bread
under your arm. Can’t you sit straight…
Old Man: That girl
beside the bar looks like your cousin Lucy,
younger, much younger of course. How juicy
is that fruit she’s eating…
Old Woman: Turn your head!
You wretched…
Old Man: Mind your bread my Pearl
I was merely making note of a resemblance.
Now we must be set when the lovely lady comes
to replenish—oh here she is:
“My dear,
we’ll have more wine, oh yes, and bread…What here?
You’ll serve no more to us? Nonsense!
Would you have us dining here on crumbs?”
At the Moulin Rouge
--an Ekphrastic poem based on the painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec
Enough with quarrel; let us turn to drink!
To St. Bruno and the Grande Chartreuse.
Ah, how splendid, and with effect succinct,
The nepenthe that kisses and parts lips loose.
Bur are we not forgetting something? Courage.
Yes, I speak of our pride. Our heritage.
You recall, I was among the brave Parisians
Who held out against Bismarck to the last command.
To the left was winter, to the right German legions--
How in the name of Gambetta we pledged our stand!
What role did a shopkeeper play? What role?
Our brave sons slept on the blankets I sold.
But as we disport ourselves this night,
The streets are filling with sportive ladies.
Behind each door, some obscene rite
Panders our sons to the tune of iniquity.
I do not lay all of the blame on Leo,
Though, things were different twenty years ago.
Edgar, I anticipate your response. Anger!
Yes, I am angry too. France is under siege!
This is a silent army to which my finger
Points—a beggar’s wine, a social disease.
Edgar, you agree, let us act while there is time!
Hmm? I am reminded it grows late; my lady is too kind.
--an Ekphrastic poem based on the painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec
Enough with quarrel; let us turn to drink!
To St. Bruno and the Grande Chartreuse.
Ah, how splendid, and with effect succinct,
The nepenthe that kisses and parts lips loose.
Bur are we not forgetting something? Courage.
Yes, I speak of our pride. Our heritage.
You recall, I was among the brave Parisians
Who held out against Bismarck to the last command.
To the left was winter, to the right German legions--
How in the name of Gambetta we pledged our stand!
What role did a shopkeeper play? What role?
Our brave sons slept on the blankets I sold.
But as we disport ourselves this night,
The streets are filling with sportive ladies.
Behind each door, some obscene rite
Panders our sons to the tune of iniquity.
I do not lay all of the blame on Leo,
Though, things were different twenty years ago.
Edgar, I anticipate your response. Anger!
Yes, I am angry too. France is under siege!
This is a silent army to which my finger
Points—a beggar’s wine, a social disease.
Edgar, you agree, let us act while there is time!
Hmm? I am reminded it grows late; my lady is too kind.
Van Gogh’s Bedroom at Arles
--an Ekphrastic sonnet based upon the painting by Vincent Van Gogh
The yellow papered room at Arles contained
Few furnishings: a sturdy bed, an extra chair,
Some clothes on pegs, a towel hung to air,
A wooden stand with toiletries arranged.
The paintings on the wall are simply framed,
As is the mirror, though no face is there
To look back on the sturdy bed and chair.
The furnishings are tidy and constrained.
It seems as if the room is all too spare,
As if something is missing, call it balance.
The brush strokes fill the void with circumstance,
But this not enough to save this lair.
Outside the pane no storm is closing in.
It’s absence contrasts to the storm within.
--an Ekphrastic sonnet based upon the painting by Vincent Van Gogh
The yellow papered room at Arles contained
Few furnishings: a sturdy bed, an extra chair,
Some clothes on pegs, a towel hung to air,
A wooden stand with toiletries arranged.
The paintings on the wall are simply framed,
As is the mirror, though no face is there
To look back on the sturdy bed and chair.
The furnishings are tidy and constrained.
It seems as if the room is all too spare,
As if something is missing, call it balance.
The brush strokes fill the void with circumstance,
But this not enough to save this lair.
Outside the pane no storm is closing in.
It’s absence contrasts to the storm within.
More Thoughts on Tollund Man
--a terza rima
As the peat-brown man took shape at Tollund Fen
Glob and several eager Aarhus students
clambered to his seven foot deep den.
They found him well preserved (thanks to the contents
of the peat and lack of air). His face retained
the look of peaceful sleep and innocence.
His furrowed brow suggests that he strained
just a bit, but his steady lips and quiet eyes
returned to sleep, his fetal posture stained
only by the brown peat where he lies.
It wasn’t ‘til they found the leather noose
around his neck, did they consider sacrifice
of Tollund man to his Earth Mother, Nerthus.
What a ritual of fertility it must have been;
what marvelous, exotic words could seduce
this man to go so willingly into the Fen?
Was it the promise of her dark Earth juice
which preserved this saint 'til he would rise again?
--a terza rima
As the peat-brown man took shape at Tollund Fen
Glob and several eager Aarhus students
clambered to his seven foot deep den.
They found him well preserved (thanks to the contents
of the peat and lack of air). His face retained
the look of peaceful sleep and innocence.
His furrowed brow suggests that he strained
just a bit, but his steady lips and quiet eyes
returned to sleep, his fetal posture stained
only by the brown peat where he lies.
It wasn’t ‘til they found the leather noose
around his neck, did they consider sacrifice
of Tollund man to his Earth Mother, Nerthus.
What a ritual of fertility it must have been;
what marvelous, exotic words could seduce
this man to go so willingly into the Fen?
Was it the promise of her dark Earth juice
which preserved this saint 'til he would rise again?
Ozymandias
--a sonnet
I hear effusive trash-talk couched in rhyme
About how I was once a virile king
Whose visage couldn’t stand the test of time.
It’s of some broken statue that they sing,
Attempting to reshape the paradigm.
How quickly they forget the Sherden Pirates
And of the many Syrian campaigns.
Who brokered peace through treaty to the Hittites?
But all this knowledge gets lost in their poesy.
So much so that they’re blind to what remains:
That what they missed by studying debris
Is that I am around them every turn,
(Yul Brynner even played me in the movie).
The fire hot, yet one heart will not burn.
--a sonnet
I hear effusive trash-talk couched in rhyme
About how I was once a virile king
Whose visage couldn’t stand the test of time.
It’s of some broken statue that they sing,
Attempting to reshape the paradigm.
How quickly they forget the Sherden Pirates
And of the many Syrian campaigns.
Who brokered peace through treaty to the Hittites?
But all this knowledge gets lost in their poesy.
So much so that they’re blind to what remains:
That what they missed by studying debris
Is that I am around them every turn,
(Yul Brynner even played me in the movie).
The fire hot, yet one heart will not burn.