Almost Midnight, Day 48 of the War

And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate
— W.H. Auden, from “In Memory of W.B. Yeats”

It’s almost midnight,  
day 48 of the war.
The seas of pity run copious
The seas of pity run dry
Dogs run in packs, straining
to bark loudest of all
Poets beat the biggest drums
they can find, calling for
ploughshares to beat into swords

Silence 
can be heard, 
only in the cloud 
monk’s silenced voice:
To be peace or not.