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The soldiers in your noble cause,

where is the hill on which they died;

the little men,

"the working man",

you hate that speech in "Citizen Kane".

The marchers in your soul parade,

where are the ones you resurrected;

what dove did you breathe life into,

what silver wine

runs through your veins.

The skulls inside your catacombs,

where are all your devotees;

cold blue dawn,

"Tomorrow Belongs",

you love that scene in "Cabaret".

Trains on time in every station,

what good are diamonds in the storm;

fire doesn't make you righteous,

water doesn't make you right,

Ezra Pound and Mussolini

laughing through "The Last Temptation",

what good are knives

with pistols drawn—

Holy Man.