Meeting Lenin

Sometimes I sit and think about
The men hist’ry treats with greatness
Often with the best intentions
They philosophize false witness

They script the creeds
Direct the deeds
They lead a people
To their fate

Or is it ‘fate’ created?

I wonder why we listen to them
I wonder that we murder for them
How is it that we martyr for them?
Or even do we follow them?

It all seems such a waste

On a cold, grey rainy day
In Hanoi, meeting Lenin
I’m thinking, truly, just as much
Of Kennedy, Eisenhower and Nixon

And it’s this which creeps me out