SOLDIER’S SONG

To the kings, their kingdoms.

The unbaptized of every faith

are ganging up upon us—

we are in a hell of a mess—

roughnecks lurk on crossroads—

fear crawls into a thatched hut—

evil-eyed ones search for victims at night—

gutless wonder from the east wanders the smoke-filled

tavern—

shameful word flits by

and like a black butterfly falls over my eyes—

I’m a cross of human flesh

on which nothingness is crucified.