It doesn't matter

    A damn what's playing—

    In the dead of winter

    You go， days of 1978 -

    79， and we went

    Because the soldiers were beautiful

    And doomed as Asian jungles

    Kept afire Christ-like

    In the hopeless war

    I did not go to in the end

    Because it ended.

    The 20th-century？

    It was a war

    Between peasants on the one side，

    Hallucinations on the other.

    A peasant is a fire that burns

    But is not consumed.

    His movie never ends.

    It will be beautiful

    Every winter of our lives， my love，

    As Christ crushes fire into his wounds

    And the wounds are a jungle.

    Equally， no matter when their movies end，

    Hallucinations destroy the destroyers.

    That's all.

    There has never been a President of the United States.

    And the 21st-century？

    Hallucination vs. hallucination

    In cold battle， in dubious battle，

    No battle at all because the peasants

    Have gone away far

    Into the lost traveler's dream，

    Into a passage from Homer，

    A woodcutter's hillside

    Peacetime superstition movie.

    On a cold night， Hector.

    On a cold night， Achilles.

    Around the savage and the maniac

    The woodcutter draws a ring of fire.

    It burns all winter long.

    He never tires of it

    And for good reason：

    Every face of the flames is doomed and beautiful；

    Every spark that shoots out into the freezing air

    Is God's truth

    Given us all over again

    In the bitter weather of men's

    Hallucinations. There has never been

    A President of the United States.

    There has never been a just war.

    There has never been any life

    Beyond this circle of firelight

    Until now if now is no dream but an Asia.