Brutish men of slaughter,
Your bulldozers and fire bombs
And you are the plague.
Your speeding bullets and tanks
Your metal shells and headdress
Put them down and
Cast your self between two banks
Running, like the undammed rebel,
Or lift from your drunkenness
A budding damask rose,
And save the bloody innocents.
Then, if all is not lost,
Plant rosy valleys like your fathers
And in their petals bathe, Until you
Find, in the messenger, the gift.