This March is colder,
Than the one before.
The March before the war.
This March is brutal,
Pictures of men on all fours.
Tortured by witches, for our noble cause.
This March is depressed,
A docile populous floating out at sea
Grey clouds, rain and moonlight,
To set this sorrowful scene.
This March we’ve forgotten about thinking,
About ripping newspapers to pieces and forming our own opinions,
This March we’ve fooled ourselves into thinking,
We’re pale white doves’ crusaders of the beautiful sun,
With leaders born out of tales, of Knights and round tables.
Stood in the garden with the moist winter air,
Soggy stems of plants curled up and bent over,
I contemplate the tundra’s heat and rattling of its thunder
The stench of the slaughter fermenting forever.
This March, our leaders told us,
Would be like no other;
The rotting leaves that once canopied the forest floor,
Will give birth to bluebells and summer. The peoples will rejoice.
But with organs shocked from news,
And tales of Imperial plunder,
I begin to learn this March, is like last March and every March earlier.