I called you my brother — you called me sick.
But my illness is not of the spirit like yours.
When you watered the weeds
that destroy the good world, bringing hell on the ones that you love,
and then called me a villain for daring to dig those infernal things up with a spade,
then it's folly to think even you would believe it yourself.
But cowardice dresses in many appeals;
and appeals to those who deceive.
The Deceiver it seems,
here has made you a bargain of time.
So stop me one day when they're choking you out,
and take from me all of my Roundup.
You'll wish for a weeder with half as much care,
who could work himself out of a job,
– but where,–
have they gone when you fired them all?
– Between all the wheels of every bus,-
where you've thrown all your brothers in heaps,
the screaming they give for your pitiless heart,
amid mockery begging for aid,
draws nothing but sneering contempt.
And round they go with the ambient sounds,-
where the sonorous ring of perdition pervades.
You laugh in your ignorant bliss;
because mangled your conscience — half human in form,
to the Tempter you traded,
for something that's safer than fighting the world:
But the world of the future resents you.
—Expedience goes on parade!
Parade, parade! what a grand charade,
with costumes of empathy, kindness, and care
having mimicked the presence of love:
But God only knows where the slipping of garments,
would show on occasion the cruelty beneath,
and render the image of truthful intent in the nude.
– Exposing necrosis,
the dead ones it seems can converse,
- but not feel.
For the prions of spirit, a soul nearly taken,
had spongiform rendered your conscience at last,
and left enough space in the gaps for a spasm;
I hope that in time you'll be cured.
