In 1854,
Ordered by an idiot,
Six hundred British cavalry,
Unprotected, charged
Well-placed Russian guns
That simply mowed them down.
They may have wondered,
Yet they thundered
Into that famous
Valley of death, because
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die.
Along with Yeats,
I used to think
We spiraled up and down.
I’ve read too much,
And lived too long,
Seen too much infamy—
I learned a god,
Upset by men,
Drowned every land-based thing
Except those on an ark.
And then invented holy war
That killed all living foes.
Another avatar, Allah
(Benevolent, and merciful),
Defined a special holy task
That cut the heads from infidels.
History, alas, is no spiral—
Just a dark flat line,
Vertical, dropping
Straight down.
(4/16/13)