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Marsico Hall: Bloodbench
The cries of them so deaf’ning none can hear.
The pile of unknown souls grows year by year,
The groans in our walls——our treats and coffee,
Then our naive hope (theirs too was lofty)
Forgets the felt of those on whom we walk,
Them of whom built the building where we talk
Of “concrete things” when with haints we cuddle——
Death to those who died in pointless struggle.
Only some can say what all can smell:
The burning flesh and screams of hell,
There from there again it go:
Down down down down below.
From longlost source ‘twas made a rule
That men in this life must be cruel
Red ocean blood for eyes that sea——
What difference does it make to me?