Clouds of war
loom to the east,
reflecting sun’s horizon
of deepest setting’s,
rose and peach.
Be it blood tomorrow,
or garden’s rising?
Surreal, the silence of this dusk,
hangs on the clouds of night’s foreboding,
clings its matter to my mind,
start memories’ work, noting
the tortured gray
of seasons past,
where men lie dead
in fields of grass,
while clouds of cannon smoke hang sighing,
weep to their young spent souls,
and beckon fast their rising.
In clamor, fall the hoof-steps
of wagons hearsed and calling
to stack the flesh, and there return
these bodies, to the bawling
eyes and hearts of loves
whose secret fear’s now summoned,
and in the wake of dead, leave tears
in sorrowed river’s running.
In distant air the sounds are heard
that confound the very reason
of men entrenched, and fighting still
beyond this deathfield’s treason.
The dogs of war, beyond it all,
hounds in chase, instinctual service
draw the hoofs and wagons on,
to serve this warring’s purpose.
In setting sun of future days,
our hearts will cry a humble phrase
that war is waste and serves just death.
And so regret the scornful ways
when tempest reigned our judgment’s tack,
in retrospect we’d like it back
and return our loved ones whole.
When regret is ours, and lessons learned
have etched the living soul,
we’ll know war serves not our purpose,
for life and love’s our role…
Yet today, the bells of war do toll.