Silver birch

The crisis of the West is here and strong
God is dead ;we do  our many wrongs
We worship kitchens made from silver birch,
Like trees beside the camp of Auschwitz cursed
To whom does guilt or even blame belong?
The birds, unknowing, chirrup,sing
We may guess the  endgame,see forked tongues
As ancients knew the Bible,verse by verse.
The crisis of the West.
To the screens we criticise,we throng
To see the drowning victims where seas fling,
We have no scales to measure what is worse.
The knowledge or the sense of  errant worth.
The language of the heart  is scarce and terse.
The crisis of the West