Thursday, December 22, 2011

Love: after The Triumph of Death

Love may not exist, it may be
only a word, it may do nothing
useful.  To erase love
is easy, it forgets itself, its weapons
are bread and wine, it sings,
its hands are empty -
Still - it persists, like poetry,
idling on a tiny green lawn
as death marches its vast armies
through the deserts behind it.
The Triumph of Death, Breughel

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