On fields of grey regret, the bodies fall—
Good men all, and younger than the grass
That paints them green and black. How high must bone
Pile upon bone before the taste of brass
Legislates an end to the blood-letting?
The stones are red, the sky is red, the dawn.
A dead sun glints on rusty bayonets,
On bones the color of marble and broken slate.
On fields of grey regret, the bodies fall
In stony rows for no good reason at all—
And they are falling yet. How deep? How tall?
How long must the wind rustle a dead man's hair?
My fingers itch to scratch an ancient sore.
How smooth the faces of those who go to war!
