[Benjamin]

Harps for the Hybrids



Collage the hybrids, serenade them with
bagpipes and harps, the French and Danish
have come to read the last prayer.

Chime the bells; the time has come to
remove the cloaks and polish the blade.
Death; ready made, moves through the
English men.

The women howl, despair echoed, across
the wet, cobbled streets.
The hybrids can only weep;
Such hollow response,
the Americans come at once.

Cease the bagpipes, let the harps hold
their harmony, let the hybrids hear the heavens
as the Scottish and Irish drink and dance
and the Welsh cook the last supper;
all eyes cast towards the woeful stage.

The time has arrived, engraved.
The Icelandic folk sing, the Estonians paint the scene.
The harps stop, silence and blades drop.
Heaven can no longer be saved.