Ten minutes north of somewhere else,
A ragged bunting flutters,
Black smoke hangs in a sullen sky
And blood runs down the gutters.
Torn uniforms and shredded boots,
The stink of gas-filled trenches;
And sentries doze
With frozen toes,
And dream of buxom wenches.
From Flanders Field to Gaza Strip -
Not far, as the missile flies -
Civilians, children, refugees,
Flee from the deadly skies.
What is it for,
What does it mean,
This senseless, mindless fighting?
When will it end,
For foe and friend?
What wrongs could need such righting?
It's happening again, you see -
In fact it never stopped -
We paraded, we 'remembered',
But the penny still ain't dropped.
3 comments:
Brilliant, George! Loved it!
Oh you write it so well .The imagery the feeling of the rough fabrics of home truths.Thank you.
Grass
By Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
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