The Ottomans and the Austro-Hungarians
hung from the branch,
rotting, over-ripe apples
to far gone for pie.
Time,
using millions of gallons of blood
and millions of tons of bones,
gently marched by and
tore them from the tree.
Since then, it’s been a century.
Now, hanging, past ripening,
other fruit wait for History
to make up Its mind
and pluck.
Poems by Ken 