These fossilised, volcanic screams
They marked the very edge of life.
One side: the town with bullet holes.
The other: gravestones marble bleached.
And where the trains came rumbling through
The weight of Europe bowed the fence,
A force unseen which broke the necks
Of every dove that ever crossed.
And dancers lost their footing there,
And slumped into the waiting tombs,
And poets closed their pocket books,
And burnt their evidence of dreams.
The morphine killed the pain and fear,
But hope has ways to keep you here.