Look from the bridge down into the black waters
where, corroded, rest the sunken barges.
A riddled sapper never set the charges:
the cry of birches is a wife’s or daughter’s.
Ilya Ehrenburg had opened the locks
in January nineteen-forty-five.
Mute as the dead are the raped left alive.
Now only splendid architecture talks.
The skeletons of quays rust in the spring,
their wooden floor beds long since warped and rotten.
Thorn and thistle prosper on the shore.
The opening ceremony with Hess forgotten,
the hammer and the sickle crush and sting
like history writ by those who won the war.
Remembering Roy Campbell (October 2, 1901–April 22, 1957)
Gianfranco de Turris — Julius Evola: Filozof a kouzelník ve válce (1943-1945)
Fondations du XXIème siècle: Le Siècle de 1914 de Dominique Venner
Deconstructing Trump the Fascist
Wait ‘Till the Sun Shines, Nellie
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village
The Worst Week Yet: May 30-June 5, 2021
Dying for Freedom