The Waste Land Revisited
September 11, 2001
Mr. Eliot, with all due respect,
April is no longer the cruelest month.
It's September that we will recollect
as the time we created a new front,
told young men and women to write their wills,
some three thousand deaths diminishing us.
The leaves fade, color is sucked out of hills.
Autumn attacks green for khaki surplus.
Bird scolding bird, all too shell-shocked to fly,
dog days of summer twist to dogtag days.
There's too much work to do to pause to cry;
what was once clear is now a cloudy maze.
This encroaching darkness we must defeat,
then recapture spring, a season past sweet.
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