The house stands gleaming, but underneath
It’s split, creaking and shaky.
Most walls are shredding from rot
Underneath the smeared whitewash of a false peace,
But no one seems to notice.
The other rooms offend,
But it’s a holy blood that soaks them deep,
Throbbing life into the uncovered filth,
And whispering of future glory
When the age of war is done and the pretty dead walls are broken,
Leaving only the true ones forever –