Within a fiction,
set in Samurai Japan,
there are a hundred men,
on a beach, rows, dead.
They were betrayed, not by their leader,
who let an enemy ooze behind lines,
not by their simple honour;
no, they were betrayed by their author.
“So what?”, you might say,
“they’re only characters in a cheap novel”,
“if that”, you might add,
“hardly worth the sentence.”
But had any one of them,
dead to sharp that moment’s plot,
lived beyond their author’s laziness;
they could be: what?
Perhaps these non–born,
having snatched creation
for such a callous blink,
deserved their self–assassination;
they could have chosen a better book.
The film was, of course, successful.