That was him: linen jacket and straw hat,

Walking the unfamiliar broad street,

Feeling warm glimmers of discovery,

As after the excitement of first love.

The fresh breath of new air turned up the light,

The touch of hot brickwork made him tingle.

The quiet history of sounds took hold

And soon enough contentment overflowed.

 

But by then his fate had been decided;

The rifle was already primed to shoot.

Its sight glinted through an open window;

It cowered, upstairs, in weapon-grade heat.

He has no place here, nor his brief pleasure,

His flickering smile or his memories.

One shot, seen only from the flight of birds,

Will bring us back a precious status quo.

 

Some things are well worth dying for. Was this?

Unnoticed, lost souls dust the grey road down.

The pale relations go about affairs;

The moon rises again, as it did before.

A grizzled handyman pursues his rounds,

While harassed doctors cover up the scars.

The image of a shallow tomb endures;

In catacombs and corners, life goes on.