The poets of the thirties all seemed scared
of darkness coming, but the certain fact
there was no single thing each of them lacked
did not disguise the evil that they feared
would come at sunset, as cool neutrals stared
patiently waiting to see them attacked.
When the bombs fell, the ones who could not hide
looked upward even though they’d lost all nerve,
thinking their only choice was wait to die
under the rubble that would soon appear.
Still poets’ honor is to march and serve
while urgent death comes from the darkening sky,
and for that moment they hold back all fear.
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