A Blight - for Benezir A Bhutto
What makes a man in the face of death
Commits to lead and surrenders breath?
I saw him hanging from a tree
Not quite Christ, but just the same
There was an apostophe in that history.
The people are such a swallow flame;
When I was young the fire burnt longer,
And after that we all were stronger
Who helped to carry the petty burden
Of a dream. The crowd is hardened
Too little for a sacrifice of the queen -
So the great warrior is fallen
Sacrificed in the game. Who was the fiend?
Whose bullet blighted the pardon
Issued from the cross? O, Benezir,
We have no leader because we have no seer.
A man does not die simply for hate again
More convoluted now the plot that brings the pain.