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Description
Bombs falling will not erase numbers.
  When Man raises his head,
The curves that guide the bombardier will be intact.
  The enslaving algebra of commerce gone awry will be there.
The bombs falling will not extinguish the
                           Cash registers, nor
  Extinguish the wizards of numbers though it steal their works,
            Those students of araby.
Bombs falling will not diminish the numbers that
     Count the bullets in one's magazine
Or take stock-- three of them for two of us--
                  Or that say with sneers, landmines in hand,
   "Let us set our mines this way across said road,
Let us rise up and ensnare them in screaming death--efficiently."
                                  The Calculators and Computers
    Will go dark, their legacies living on after them,
Breaking down-- or clubbed and burned in futile revenge like
Lonely, outlived martyrs, Lollards of a lost age, lonely effigies
   Of a world that trusted them and was dissappointed when
They were shells inside who
             Could not save.
Bombs falling will not erase Numbers.
Only make ashes for them to grow in,
Death being the delight of the
Cold Calculus of Hell, plotting vain empires
And building cannons in the night to match
    The mountains of the Living Myth who was real in the Day.

Description
Bombs falling will not erase numbers.
  When Man raises his head,
The curves that guide the bombardier will be intact.
  The enslaving algebra of commerce gone awry will be there.
The bombs falling will not extinguish the
                           Cash registers, nor
  Extinguish the wizards of numbers though it steal their works,
            Those students of araby.
Bombs falling will not diminish the numbers that
     Count the bullets in one's magazine
Or take stock-- three of them for two of us--
                  Or that say with sneers, landmines in hand,
   "Let us set our mines this way across said road,
Let us rise up and ensnare them in screaming death--efficiently."
                                  The Calculators and Computers
    Will go dark, their legacies living on after them,
Breaking down-- or clubbed and burned in futile revenge like
Lonely, outlived martyrs, Lollards of a lost age, lonely effigies
   Of a world that trusted them and was dissappointed when
They were shells inside who
             Could not save.
Bombs falling will not erase Numbers.
Only make ashes for them to grow in,
Death being the delight of the
Cold Calculus of Hell, plotting vain empires
And building cannons in the night to match
    The mountains of the Living Myth who was real in the Day.