Riefenstahl and the Men from Hell
by John Howard Reid
Come the seasons, lay the scores of war,
the Jekylled faces hiding in the arms
of silken candor and romantic might,
where dreams are perjured on stakes
of madness, disguised as patriotic ideals.
Where Romance rises like the Teuton knights
and grinning gardens hide their gleeful
graces at respites from the rites of war
while lonely Leni dances bright with the
fixated Fuehrer and his mike-minded Minister.
What hints of charm disarm Miss Reifenstahl
as quavering voices tingle in the wind,
as deep desires masked by passions
of conquest are softly spun on a sluice
of autumn breeze, on her final flower of Fall?
Regretful of repentant charms, unmoved
by conscience or their daily dallying
with dreams of fulfilment in the arms
of lithe, speak-lively Leni, Goebbels
and Fuehrer rage, ransack, murder, rape!
Thus Leni herself becomes an object of scorn,
a treasure of silver transmuted to clay,
her friends the enemies of all who think free,
her ideals dust, her talents misspent,
dreams are nightmares, her soul misplaced.