An Occasional Poem
The Ides of March
The Day of Betrayal
Murdered not for who he was.
But for who he might become.
Is that so different from today?
We, who look through a glass darkly,
Think we see others clearly
When we have no idea
Who we ourselves are.
If we don’t strike the first blow,
We wait, watching others,
Slipping in at the last to
Deliver the final twist to
What is already a corpse.
Years later History
Counts the wounds,
Names the gashes,
While we in our Collective Memory
Read about the Past in a book,
Oblivious to our part.
© Anne 2009
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