Classic Poem

Poets of the south,
how can you sing your ineffectual songs
of chrysanthemums and the like?
You are death
to countless flowers,
death
to history.
Poets of the north,
how can you sing your obdurate songs
of one father icon?
You are death
to countless brothers and sisters.

Poets of the south, poets of the north,
run
from death and deceit.