Till the bird becomes the olive branch,
or, better still, the pure white flag,
I will devote my life to the bomb,
be the bomb in God's right hand.
Everywhere I see the devil's hand.
This city is a party branch,
carrying his well-keeled bomb,
supporting his troops, flying his flag.
Some nights, heavy with rain, a flag
hangs like a rag from heaven's hand.
Then every streetlight glitters like a bomb,
every street splits into a branch
and a branch, every flat becomes a flag,
and the bomb goes silent in my hand.