the story remains...the characters change out....the actors take over...this play of ourselves.

Why are our sons not bleeding anymore, and our daughters weep no more?
Why is it that only the calves in the slaughterhouse have any blood left?
Why is it that only the willows on Lake Urmi are shedding tears?

The emperor stands in need of a new province, the peasant must hand over his savings.
So that the roof of the world may be conquered, the roofs of all the huts are carted off.
Our men are taken away, scattered to all four winds so that the noble lords at home may feast and revel.
And the soldiers kill one another, the generals salute one another. They bite the widow's farthing to see if it is real.
The lances are broken.
The battle has been lost. But the helmets have been paid for.
Is it so? Is it so?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, it is so.

Public offices overcrowded, officials sitting all the way out to the street.
Rivers overflow the banks and devastate the fields.
Men who can't take their own pants down are ruling empires.
They can't count to four but they eat eight courses.
The corn growers look round for buyers, find only starvelings.
The weavers go home from their looms in rags.
Is it so? Is it so?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, it is so.

That's why our sons are not bleeding any more, and our daughters weep no more.
Why only the calves in the slaughterhouse have any blood left.
Why it is that only the willows on Lake Urmi are shedding tears.

~B.B.