The Battlefield


The playful wind a-whirling wheeled
Its zephyrs through the battlefield.
I looked. The wind blew out its breath.
I ask: was all this useless death?

Corpses long had sunk away
Into the bloodied, miry clay.
Still were plentiful the bones
And skulls all heaped like altar-stones.
Metal lances, buckles, guns
Glinted here and there like suns.
The sweet silence did belie
This record: that all men shall die.

Was their battle right or wrong?
The same reward to weak and strong!
Was it worth their blood to spill
And they their fellow-man to kill?
Why should hate these so divide
That each would slay the other side?
It was a bizarre mystery
That men would chose like this to die.

Still the zephyrs blew its breath.
I ask: what’s worse than wasted death?


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