On the horizon and blurred in passing smoke
figures move into the distant fields,
and closer the dead battleground
springs red grass blades.

Here the poet silently tiptoes, grieving,
another tear-stained handkerchief,
counting dying gasps and stealing
last words meant for a mother.

And count the words,
Place them side by side
Dead grass
Here I died
Scorched mud
Missing hand
Count the bones
Try to understand
Count the dead in a final breath
Count the hearts or close to death
Note the words secure the lines
Still alert just in time
Still on duty never wrong
The poet listens for another song.

The field grows quiet the day grows faint,
retrace the path from where you came,
another figure leaves the ground,
stepping silently, no sound,
with no heartbeat the figure moves,
no arms or shirt or no shoes,
through the mist they still move,
away from life,
and from our view.

.......