Poem speak!
Kill the reek of history:
knife-mad generals,
in gold faces,
ascending hills of bones.

Where is the hand
on the breast? Eyes
small as hope
a few days old?
That doesn’t make TV,
newspapers, statues.

Cause the good act needs no
monument, just the killers
guilt-mad crave
the lies of marble,
the ashes of symphonies.