In a world of flint-like certitudes

Nothing in the eyes gives.

The least dither draws a dagger

Where was the soul only a trident lives.

Words are now arsenals

Honed for conquest,

Pain is a lonely predicament

That puts the disloyal to test.

The arm of rule reaches deep

Into the farthest cave.

No grotto, however concealed,

May the nay-sayer save.

The world moves to a perfection

Of singlemindedness

The rose, the orchid, the gladioli

Must all become lotus.

 

God made man to rectify

The folly of variousness.

Does it matter that the task

Defeated the Duce, Hitler, Hess?

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