Once more the war; though now it seems some joy has been permitted to infiltrate the outlook. The Wehrmacht turned back at Stalingrad, enough of a setback to pre- tend a beginning to an end. Hope springs eternal wrote the poet Pope, & the kings — though fewer of them around these days — string along by opening the kingsways up to celebration. No fireworks — gunpowder is strictly mili- tary matériel in times of war — but the dead are plentiful, as are the flowers that feed on them. Picked, & thrown in to the air; &, from a certain perspective, not quite golden apples but, in times of scarcity, perhaps the next best thing.
