Fever-Dream, A Poem
How quickly can a little nation die?
As quickly as she can let down her hair.
It isn’t right; but then, life isn’t fair,
And someone else’s nonsense isn’t mine.
I’ll keep to me, and you to thee and thine.
And if you fancy, in those sandy lands,
That Ghani should have bloodied his own hands,
Perhaps you’re right—but, you must know, no one
Has a monopoly, when all is done,
On what is really right or really wrong.