Not A Single Poet Shall Die

It should
Have Remained but
With little say in the
Matter they
Decide to alter
The names and
Home here not a
Single poet will
Die tonight. Funny:
How the
Young men
Grow increasingly
Paler and more
Consumptive before
There is to be
A war

One remarks his maps as
His father had done before him. Another
Shudders every time his
Blood re-circulates. Suddenly
There are many things to be
Ashamed of now

This is a
Time of joy
And rebirth but
An ice tinged
Phoenix of a
Pyre made from
Ice and
Heart of ice flies only
As far North

The changing of the maps really lets them sleep
At night. All these ashen
Poets! And not one shall hang himself
This April, nor next…

And the War is not for years. Years and
Years