Sunday, November 11, 2012

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month

Mother please don’t cry for me, for I have gone.
My pain’s embrace has left, though you feel it still.
Turn your anguish to joy, for I am at peace.
In our trench’s arms I lie; a sweet release.

And softly then the tender rain falls like blood,
Upon our upturned faces that see no more.
Lovingly sweeps the red mud from sightless eye,
With purest tears wrought from God’s own summer sky.

And our trench fills with a profuse torrent then,
Carries remains of its hopeless protection.
Earthen walls, sandbags and bodies, everyone.
Seeks to escape the carnage we have become.

We’re but empty vessels of our former selves,
The flow that seeks to wash away our remains,
Blushes as it turns an even redder hue.
Shamed witness of those, who know not what they do.

Mother, the foe were like us; all someone’s child.
No malice in their hearts; there was none in ours.
Around their feet I beg you, let no blame, pool.
Cheap were our brief lives; sent here by those who rule.

We were as but leaves on a great tree grown old.
But as the leaves fall, so shall the strong oak too,

Weakened, helpless to stand against folly wind,
Roots consumed from within by men who have sinned.

Leaders who knew the cost in our blood and lives,
At their spotless boots must all blame be now piled.
Vain, they called the piper, bade us pay the tune,
In granite should their shame be forever hewn.

So to grave we go; I hope for the best cause.
As symbols of the imprudence of conflict,
Peacefully safe with our friends, men, brave and true.
War that took so many……
                                     . . . .  Begun by so few.

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