As the crumble of quartz rises to summits,
and the silver sword of certainty
is melted in the alchemist stew,
the whirlwind will swallow our Babel.
And we, soldiers home from war⎯
hear the cacophony of our every brutality
alive and dead in rocks and tissue.
In the faded fog of sun,
we cast and chisel the lore
of stubborn memory⎯
still, tremble like a rat
caught in the cobra’s glare.
Leo Briones
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kismet-10/
