Sunday, July 28, 2013
Oh dear Leon, you,
tu, who sought a delicate balance
between anarchy and military phalanx,
between democracy and egalité,
among the bolshevoi and the fraternite,
during that treacherous time between the
two War blights,
between interwar contentions of
Social lefts and Fascia rights.
Hey Leon, man of belles lettres,
don't make it bad; just
'take a sad
song, and make it better,'
we would have said,
before republican liberté got shot dead.
Your fined-tuned idea of Man's
path to Justice was so,
oh so, exquisitely
until the fierce winds of prewar gahenna
somewhere between Paris and Vienna
overpowered your pure, postwar intentions,
decimated your Front Populaire coalitions,
obliterated, with wehrmacht destruct,
your Social political construct,
when the ancient god of Forces
dispatched his dread iron horses,
to explode your good intentions
and implode your fragile humanité
Oh Leon, merci for your short-lived
Premier swan chanson.
Quel est ce bruit lointain
Oh Leon dear,
what is that distant noise we hear?
CR, with new novel, Smoke, in progress