What a scene is painted
pricks of grass rub boots of steel
and ivory stones, jaundiced with age
shaped by religion and carved with a name
carved by a spirit, marking a spot
a fire only a handful remember, the warmth only pieces of
text
cold water drew out the flame, now each tomb tells the
matter of things
the greatness of battle, the service, the price
must be paid by a million homes
for freedom and dignity
boys must be robbed
by a shaking hand their pages were ripped
a steady politician shaded uniform red
from heart to arrest, from command to divinity
we are forever to wonder how come

Our relatives are granite, our voices rarely heard
one of them claiming we know too many of them

At night murder flocks around, shedding tears for unripe
boys
lying
row by row
sleeping well and hard