When they weren’t busy
hiding stolen millions in Swiss banks
and disappearing the corpses of
their enemies between steel rebars
of magnificent bridges, they liked to
discover struggling artists
and open doors for them.
It was some kind of golden age
for the arts, if you could just ignore
all the stories of torture and
the warnings that it would take
four generations to pay for it all.
They found her rising star when she was
seventeen and made her incandescent.
With London’s West End marquees
and golden statues engraved with her
once-unknown name, she brought honor to
her country with her stellar portrayals
of people’s suffering under different
bloodthirsty regimes drunk on fascism.
I was a little girl when I saw her on stage,
but I still know the songs by heart.
I recently watched her burning, on Twitter.
She was going down in no less than
resplendent flames, as she continued
to praise and defend the bloodthirsty regime
drunk on fascism that found her rising star
at seventeen and made her incandescent.
Irony is dead.