We all have
a voice. To raise.

But their
buttoned-down lie

Will not be
undone;

the sensual
lip

of the
military man

says how it
will be;

as the lie
of Authority

would
prescribe how we live and die;

each fresh
calamity

has been

ordained by
a hierarchy of hate;

and anger
allows no choice

to the
soldier or the mob:

we must
kill one another, then die.

Stranded
under the night’s comfortless veil

the
low-born scan the sky

for a
tell-tale trail of fire.

Sober dots
of light

flash out
where the unruly meet,

swapping
gestures of hope

and burning
outrage.

As if I was
one of them,

foundering
in the same flare

of despair
and disgust,

unable to
mourn more dead,

I shed off
my uniform of indifference

and move
with the millions

towards,
against, beyond

our uncivil
government.

After W.H.
Auden: September 1, 1939.