Duncan killed, could not make him the king;
The murdered sleep unable to sing,
Dhritarastra blind, urged the brothers to fight;
The drudgery within lost the lasting pretty sight.
Of what use are these players, acting out the death;
Agonies of hatred with thoughtless length and breadth,
Ground oozing lives that poem into fun.
Writers write to them, and talkers go on and on;
Action hides in us, when the king’s suddenly born,
Killing the wars in us, all we need to do;
Losing it on stage, winning it anew.
No comments:
Post a Comment