Cupid of the Underworld

And now for something completely different. This is a poem from the vaults: a poem about the redemptive power of suffering, with an anti-war counterpoint. Then again, maybe it's just about a rather fetching lady with a bow and arrow. Whichever you prefer:

Redeemer - my killer, my victim - pale Archeress

Cupid of the Underworld

Draw taut the silken sinews of your hand.

Could drops of pity foil perfection's aim?

Your bow smiles to see its prey unmanned -

an arrow flies - the killer bears no blame.

Somewhere in a desert stands a man,

about to move his finger. Blood tastes the same

in every clime - from London to Afghanistan -

a bullet flies - the killer bears no blame.

Like Zeno's arrow spinning in eternal flight,

my mind retraces time to whence it came:

You live in darkness, hunt by moonlit night

and guiltlessly you smile but bear the blame

for every cruel cut this world endures,

for which injustice there is one redress:

the poisoned barb that breaks my skin is yours;

redeemer - my killer, my victim - pale Archeress.