"For poetry makes nothing happen; it survives in the
valley of its saying where executives would
never want to tamper,..." Auden: In Memory of W. B. Yeats
The Poets are writing poems against the war.
They stand in the storm,
Raising their small, thin voices,
Ignored in the din of raucous, thoughtless shouting.
But after the shouting stops,
And the missiles have found their targets,
There, amid the broken bodies
And the rubble that is left,
In the terrible silence,
A light wind will waft a scrap of paper.
It will be a poem.