Thucydides

The moon is at the edge Of its descent.

Broken skulls lie about The courtyard — already Cobwebs are gathering in The righteous neglect That is death.

The lamps have all Burned out.

The long halls stand Deserted — for all That is known The people may well Have fled by now.

The moon is poised To reflect Our scattered dawn Over the red Fields and the beaten Plains.

I have neither heart Nor strength Enough to continue That insane history —

I am a man, perhaps Too old To be at ease In a breath-shudder Of fury,

Perhaps too young To face the shattered Sky and say — at This point in our Struggle — that the days Have some value.

Somewhere — out on The street fringes — Dogs are shrieking at The moon.