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Emperors and kings are crippled,
with suddenness
on their knees in deep green fields of slaughter
from the woods come silver hunting horns,
and they sound like the monks, who,
finding so many dead,
can no longer pray for lone faces,
nor fold the hands of our fallen

Brown guns rust, even as they spit
Splitting the emerald delight
of the wild, lonely lawns
And the trees surrender their branches,
Splintered by the shredding, selfish gunfire

The ground is soft, the duff moist with the light rain
That came this morning, offering peace,
But was turned back by the whisper of boots
Meandering through the dead leaves and dancing grass

All the leaders are crippled, torn to death
And now we are escorting their wives to the trench in which their husbands lie
Lime covers the wonderful green of their clothes
And their beards are frosted, they remind us of clean mess halls
And polished stainless galleys

Butchers and carpenters ferry their children out of the town
Putting the burning steeple at their backs
The hoods are drawn up, but they are not the monks, who cannot continue their songs

And so it is up to us
To fold the hands and close the eyes, to leave silver in the scarred dirt

The hunting horns are silenced by the coming dark, and the grass takes this moment
To repair
And so do we, looking to the sky
It is silver, and cloudless, very beautiful from this particular field
The crows haven't woken yet, and will not be here until tomorrow
Cawing heresy as they scratch at the soil
That we will fill our trench with

It is very beautiful here, especially the skies
And this place reminds of another place
Where there are no wild grasses, nor trees or crows
And where I could make no trench for my dead,
So stubborn was the sand.