During the killings unaware

we walked along the lakes.

You spoke of Szymanowski,

I studied a rook

picking at dog shit.

Each of us caught up in ourselves

surrounded by a shell of ignorance

that protects our prejudices.

The holists believe that a butterfly in the Himalayas

with the flap of a wing can influence the climate

in Antarctica.  It may be true.

But where the tanks roll in

and flesh and blood drip from the trees

that is no comfort.

Searching for truth is like hunting lizards

in the dark.  The grapes are from South Africa,

the rice from Pakistan, the dates grown in Iran.

We support the idea of open borders

for fruit and vegetables,

but however we twist and turn

the ass is at the back.

The dead are buried deep inside the newspaper,

so that we, unaffected, can sit on a bench

on the outskirts of paradise

and dream of butterflies.