Noises of sense

Can the war be discussed?
Yes, answers old mole who digs for boasted credit.
The war I tell you, is made by water carriers
bony and scheming.
They want to scrape the bottom of all true meaning
and replace it with open wounds, blood,
the exaltation of patriotism,
to hide every genuine vein
and the gazes that cross the faces thirsting for justice
and drunken smiles.

It is the turn of dishonour
or not,
it is the time of dry truths,
of becoming deaf while outside
freemasons and the corrupts.
Yet war does not purify,
does not sanctify the hateful hardness of living
and does not console widows.
Wait wait,
the wind that blows hard on the tresses
of languid hemp
and the white sun of the future.

Wait wait,
for the seagulls to sniff the air
and the crows flutter in clouds of ashes.
We are ready to bid farewell,
but you be careful what you do