With his ruined machines standing guard, the old man lives
at the end of a street so long no one goes there anymore.
He was once the proud recipient of a some award from the State,
which in the Dictator's time would have been struck
in precious metal, pendant on a perfect ribbon of silk,
but now is screen-printed on a dime store plate.
Such is the sorry state of patriotism—that it displays
its naked tawdryness in pretense of some old pretended glory;
brave and cowardly alike dying in great battles for great causes won—
or lost—we don't quite remember through the murk of history.
It was all so clear back then; but this is how the devil works,
by showing so pristine a view of evil that even now
we see creation through that special glass of his.