These coasts—the belligerent stare inland, the glasses they bend on shores beyond, the fingers around the arctic pole, the arm stretching for the very stars in the sky—belong to a wild, misanthropic tradition.  They engirdle the planet with red stripes while a population starves.  Christ, upon whose message the nation was founded, would condemn the White House, would condemn the Constitution which enshrined supremacy of blood in its parchment.  In respect to governance, would Christ favour competition and greed, or equality, the righteous cause?  On nations, would he preach war or peace?  Was he not executed by an empire for his dissidence?  How highly would he esteem the American sermon?  But he would also forgive, for his love was unconditional, before willing the West Wing to see a light that is not green.

There is a red hat popular among the discontented, which may foreshadow a decapitation.  If God is Great, then how can America be called a disciple?

“Forwards we go, on whim of congress,
The chamber swells to chords of war;
We the nation unborn longest,
Will fight ‘til we be born no more;
Bestride the cannons broad we ride,
Waved on by flags and children fair,
Between the columns grand we slide,
Drawn thither by arcing flare.”

Lands engrooved by strokes of war,
Are lands where only weeds will bloom,
Where, watered by ire, resolves endure:
Empires, themselves do they entomb.

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