41 years after the war
April is the cruelest month Perhaps for the start of Spring Spring being the joy of living Yet living being cruel
April is the hemlock cup of Socrates From it we have drunk Truth
When flowers blossomed in the graveyard Avenues sprang from the half-witted compromise of love and recollection Mornings came back to the city And birds to the parks Newborns blessed with but a name
Peace
The Son of Man pardoned from the crucifix Pledged to cast away his sword Pouring holy grails of insipid wine The truth is Only half a truth survives
Like the tiny bullet shell stuck in memory with the rust of so many monsoons Silent Like a letter, written And unsent
The address perhaps changed The house sabotaged The recipient moved to the countryside, or dead Dead The recipient being a man Therefore the recipient would be dead
And because of that I would never forget April Always the cruelest month
-P.K. - image by Dao Strom