These tragedies that war upon the screen, These day-to-day reminders that all’s sick: They cut into our vision as we dream And lie within stale hearts. The silent prick Of death we can repress, but not the waves That fight like foes upon our passive shores, Waging war where war was not. The graves That time forgot and life always ignores Call out for us to hear them; yet our towns Lie sleepy in the certainty that fate Always befalls another (volume down, Lest we remember; best that we forget). Were men to blame when Siloam’s tower fell? In this: our hearts have helped to fashion Hell.