Bowed by the weight of aid boxes he leans
Upon the truck and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face
And on his back the burden of loot.
Who made him dead to agency and life,
A thing that consumes and that never makes,
Resentful and desperate, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose stuffed hate within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And pillared the blue firmament with light?
Hand fixed on the tailgate of a truck
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Take back the AK-47;
Give back the laughter and the light;
Rebuild in it the industry and the dream;
Make right the innumerable lies,
The incessant propaganda, immedicable woes?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall fulfill his hate,
And feel the hunger still?