Don José
This is history repeating itself,
except it's love that guides his hand,
aiding the crafting
of a worthless sorrow.
The first time,
honour commanded his will,
preached the greatness
of land and flag,
provided a benediction
to scour his guilt,
unneeded, if truth be told, since he
was a committed participant.
His bloodied mind remains a terrible thing,
distressed to all but piteous love,
and it is this he craves,
as they stagger to the ground,
before slumbering crowds,
which tolerate distant blood,
safe from the grim theatres
in their far vantage points.
He will demonstrate the certainty
of his love’s construction,
turn her world, withdraw her worth
to a flawed beat.
Does he pause the seconds?
No –
he is like you, and me,
after all, human.
The struggle is bereft of counterweight,
he guts with tutored passion,
cheered on by love’s suffering,
and all our blessing.
