If culture had fluidity
It would drip from her finger-tips like rain,
And where it spattered there would be
Indelible purple stain.

If quietude had tongue what speech
Would iterate above her head,
What clamorous echoes would beseech
Behind her quiet tread.

But spent blood leaves no stain nor stir,
Save in that art which marks her ways —
The background dead hands make for her
With their defeated days.