Warriors, Priests The clash of our words Rose until in the general Melee even the sorrowful And sick keened their grievance Above the snarls and sneers: Their hope of spoil Their fear of detestation. I stepped back with Weary arm, my words Ran down my sleeve Onto the ground Where they sounded A guttural protest At the wind. Others too withdrew Like tormented Conies scurrying off To seek a hiding place Beneath the piles of trash. We stood with Heaving chests. Our eyes Looked about with deep Suspicion. Those most Given to the pacific cause Were as like as not To rage against Our mild and ironic Warwords. We stood aside And pulled our cloaks About our bulging shoulders And arms, content that Should our words fail In resolution our swords Were sharp enough to etch Our sayings on city walls.