The Meek Shall Inherit

Athena sings a siren's song
Her court above
A dying throng
The shout, the scream, the cry, the groan
The stab, the shear, their acts atone.

The earth a pock-marked,
Marred old drum
Where bodies fall
To Ares' thrum.

An old folk's jig,
They practice here,
Though old men shrink,
Cower. Fear.

The young are able,
Strong and bold
Though new-born ears
Want stories told

Of glory, fortune,
Fame and gold,
Of Sparta's conquests
New, then old

To add to weaver's
Work they seek
And bloodied hands
Foul havoc wreak.

To plant a sigil,
Mark their place
They march for death,
Fast cover space.

The call of void,
Is music sweet
To men who howl,
And cheer and eat

Who march for days
To battle's end
And hallowed gods
Their boons will lend

To fight for honour,
Country, home
They chance their fate - 
Their choice alone

And leave their
Widow wives behind
For fortune's wheel
Remains to grind

Their children's
Little bones to dust
So much for battle,
This death-kissed lust.

It's not the men
Who seek to die
That bare the brunt
Of old man's lie -

It's empty homes
And stalls and schools
Their empty streets
Their silence rules.

The old men spared
They walk these paths
And wheeze and gasp
Amidst their laughs

They dance a jig - 
Though this one's fine
They touch and toe
The sacred line.

They lie and plot
And seek to steal -
Here rolls out now
Old Fortune's wheel.

Fire-Storm Snowfall in Tokyo

The crunch of snow
Recalls me to a familiar scene,
That remind me of purring,
Wooden beams and pillars
Shattering beneath the columns of flame.

The snowflakes, falling, cosy up to wooden silhouettes of houses,
Gigantic housecats tumbling in snow-dune deserts.
They shine under the sun’s mischievous glare.
Pale contrast to the ash-snow that fell before.

That snow spawned black devil-cats
That danced around the wooden buildings.

Their fiery string spooling out into the long night,
Their scratching-post sparks igniting the sky.

These snowflakes bring a different kind of sting,
Biting as viciously as the hot sear of ash.

Unloading soggy clothes,
A watercolour catches my eyes.
The uneven blurred strokes conjure the yowls that poured out from the night.

Pockmark sparks dance behind closed eyelids,
The never-ending flash of white on black canvasses.
These images will never fade.
Burned-brand memories last
Like long-healing claw-mark scars,
The smell of blood not long forgotten.

I still recall the mechanical shrieks that sent the
Thatch-fur roofs into a frightened frenzy –
With so many fire-struck whiskers erupting into flames in the night.