Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

from beyond our horizon
comes the sound
    tympanic booms
    savage rumbling
    the faraway growl
        of stomachs hungry for
        power
        control
        more

so we fret
with brows furrowed
    in cultivated concern
    whilst
we mumble apologia and
    with clucking tongues
serve imported tea
    at finely-set tables

but that thrum
    that urgent pulsation
to our distant friends
is the pounding of fists
    on skins stretched taut
a percussive temblor
    shaking hearts and lands
a crescendo of chaos
    building
        to the cymbal’s crash
        to rimshot snares
        to the xylophonic dance of bones

once was a time
this selfsame song
danced upon the breeze
    a faint and subtle rhythm
we listened and
    with pallid interest
chose to admire
    the musician’s technique
rather than critique
    the tune

but the cacophony spread
and others took up the noise
until the world shrieked
    through those bloody measures
and millions vanished
    beneath the grinding treads
        of war

in time
we wrote a coda
    to the obscene chorale
having learned
    that for some
    more
    is never
    enough

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