From the instant Aeschylus, an on-site
witness to the war, set down
The Persians, Greek

tragedy was born.
I’m drawn to a form where the worst is all
that can be counted on:

no bromides; no—relief: pure—is.
All the terrible night visions
that, piped into our sleeping heads, burst

and tear us out of sheet-soaked sleep
just before the wave breaks
were viciously precise,

and yet the less
than perfect lip-synching
with artificial stage-craft

to make the setting appear
more natural was
inconsequential

in contrast
to the whole, the brute
outer devastation

and its dark double
whose damage
done, being internal, remains

immeasurable, immune
to any known words
other than—howl.

It’s just begun, the dying; the denied carnage.
It’s not enough to preview
silent prophetic mirages in dreams

that breed distress and distress in action.
What were the consequences? 
Loss of face? Or mask?