Skeletons of men or trees in winter creek
as dreams find no peace with dying days
and hollow men march in hollow rage
across a continent abandoned and lost
to mongrels and serpents of sly failure.

It is not I that call for dark jihad to flow
like hot blood in the gutters of no tomorrow,
nor do I call for men of straw to circumcise
or sharpen the blunt point of no return.
I am the slow food that dogs reject.

No man is more than his understanding
and no understanding is more than the man
that can conceive more than his feelings.