Their world is theirs, though it be theirs
and small.
Theirs by which to stand - perhaps to fall.
By shells of monarch buildings gaunt and dead,
gaily nervous and with turning head
and listening ears and watching hearts that beat,
they pass their hours in the home, the street;
and silently they **** a silent war,
who feel the present and have felt before.

The war goes on - there is no sound of guns.
Only the fierce friction of brains that are hissing;
the tense and savage barter of two for ones.
And all the while in the park,
there are lovers kissing.