Both the Truth and the liars are hidden
And will not come forth to speak unbidden
By necessity’s will or convenience,
Unless called for by fakery of sense.
At the bottom of a stinking dry well —
Half way, the easy half, from here to Hell —
Where nakedness — dear Truth — shivers and sighs —
Will Emptiness stitch golden clothes of lies.
He emerges to strut in his glory.
Every sentence he spouts is a story.
The Truth, her bruised body cleansed at least,
Climbs out to the reception of a beast.
They beat and rape her, drag her by her hair,
Throw her back into the well, her dark lair.
The job is done, the murder weapon stashed;
A beautiful young woman bashed and slashed.
The killer and his partners listen intently,
Moved to inaction by a simple song
A woman sings with soft intensity,
As if her passion could efface a wrong
Perpetrated with mountainous cruelty.
Will speechless bystanders be sufficient
To subdue the heartless secret agent?
The song is over, yet they hesitate.
Three observers, representing the State,
All alike, unblinkingly accuse us
Of the action's unconscionable causes.
There is much more for us to do than wait.
I rarely walk beyond that tree
That is home to birds —
And air — too close
To the undermined
Riverbank.
I’ve tried holding
The tree — hands uncertain—
Taking a step —only one —
A test of courage —
A test of foolishness.
Even at flood height
The water invites —
And seems — at times —
To flow in reverse — back
Up between its banks —
I follow from here.
A man isn’t a man without being a fool,
At least that’s what the Fool learned in idiot school.
As if lethal it’s called a “loon fallout”:
The migrating birds wing so high,
Their feathers grow heavy with ice
(Instinct won’t drive them a warmer route)
And they drop, too encumbered to fly.
Their backs are black, dotted like dice.
They aren’t able to walk on the ground.
Red eyes glare, fish-spearing beaks clack.
Their dusk-born two-note wails don’t sound.
If rescued (which they fight), taken back
To water, they’ll drown in a small pond.
They need a quarter mile and beyond,
Wings thrashing, feet running on water,
Or they’ll stall, and all flying will falter.
Hannah Arendt: monstrous acts can be committed by ordinary people who simply stop thinking, obey orders, and fail to exercise empathy or moral judgment.
Top-hatted crows fly single file to roost,
