We are rough, all of us, and have lost
the touch and the feel of skin. We do not,
we do not cause friction, or love.
By now, we burn cigarettes on the arms
of children, if their names are odd.
I saw people dancing in the street,
the beat of their feet, their hollering,
humanskin drumskins, the bonfire bones --
they were drunk on blood.
O Babylon, you have made
monsters of all of us.
Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,
happy is the one who repays you
according to what you have done to us.
Happy is the one who seizes your infants
and dashes them against the rocks.