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
Taken during travels, 1995