(Written during 1940 election campaign, when Hate, Bitterness and Nastiness were rife, and the mail ^%$^% heavy)
To rest: there is no rest
Upon this earth
While man supreme shall roam at will,
Of animals the basest.
No rest while unrequited good
And virtue of a paltry few
Be laughed to scorn
By at-any-cost-ambitious others.
What rest when man pretends
To love a god
High-born and holy, but instead
Doth kneel at throne
Of rodomontade and avarice,
All the forms of selfishness
And sophistry unending?
No rest then, here, for us,
The undead,
Pitiful remnant of the millions
Who have escaped long since.
No rest ti l death shall loose the fetters
Thct clutch us to this jealous life
Like some fierce vulture, frantic
Lest helpless prey should flee.
To die, and there to lie
Untroubled:
Undisturbed by passions petty,
Trifling hates, and Greed,
That monster, who with breath unutterable
Doth sink fangs into heart of man,
Who, too, becomes unspeakable,
Fit company for beasts.
To die: and thus escape
The creature
Taught we are to love as brother,
Saint or snake be he.
0 Life!… Thou art but lengthy story
Whose sordid pages grim and gory
With villain-filled carousal
Must surely author shame!
To die: we fear not death.
His picture,
Bony, bloody, grim of visage,
Conjured up by man–
A part of his campaign to frighten
Into living on our children
When death would comfort offer–
Dost only solace me.
by Ray Romine Friday, November 15, 1940
