Waits, noise and mess its camp followers.
The crowd is
always waiting, waiting for a festival-
music or literature even.
Awaiting the mardi gras, the revolution
the carnival, some kind of orgy.
A requiem for someone known to all.

Of course none of these things can help them
but, what could do them any good?
All our children rushing to enlist.

We have tended a patch of land
without money produced a garden
the children; half help, half hindrance
grew happy there.

We hesitate to turn at a quiet click of the gate
no wish to see a recruit coming home.