An old olive oil press rusting 
at the bottom of a sandy garden
in his occupied territory.
A man lying prostrate,
face down, on the sandy soil.

Not dead but murmuring
about a weight, a burden, something.
I could not hear clearly,
what with all the muffled explosions
and such.

This man, this man, he screamed out
 ‘NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS YOU WILL, FATHER!’.
But there was no other man there, no father, nothing.
Was this man drunk?
No, I do not think so.

But he may have drunk some wine
sometime, not long ago,
during a pause in the battle, 
hearing the cock crow,
three times.

Faraway strange unlit things
sunset, not sunrise.
Black skies.
The roosters had been eaten, 
long ago
what with the siege and the starvation and whatnot.
I don’t know.