The weapons that were once outside sharpening themselves on war are now indoors there, in the fortress, fragile in glass cases; Why is it (I'm thinking of the careful moulding round the stonework archways) that in this time, such elaborate defences keep things that are no longer (much) worth defending?
Margaret Atwood (1987). “Selected Poems: 1965-1975”, p.20, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt