The farmers are accustomed to sifting
bones and teeth from their peaceful pastures – 

the same their ancestors saw overturned. 
They saw men swallowed without a name or age,

far from a mother's prayer or lover's embrace.
Liberated from fear and choking

on mud and horsehair and flesh of comrades
and enemies alike, shrapnel hacking at throats

never shaved, rifles strapped across twisted spines
built by mothers' hands at home. Never fired. 

For all they sought to end of the suffering, 
they couldn't pull the trigger.

For what's the use of ending slaughter
by putting a bullet in the head of a boy

different only by flag.