The battlefield is empty now
except for the shattered trees,
ruined artillery,
and stained lumps that dot the ground.
The victors have withdrawn
to salute their fallen brave,
the defeated
to mourn their dead.
From the valley below comes
a line of carts and wagons.
Behind them comes a column
of grim townsfolk in sad procession.
They have come to gather the dead.
They set about their task
with a quick efficiency
telling of many hard years
tilling the now ruined soil.
Uniforms of this color here,
unforms of that color there,
those with no uniform in either,
stacked like limp cord wood.
Later the commanders will meet.
“Where shall you bury your dead?”
They claim their burial grounds and
come to an agreement.
A final civility
between two enemies
before they crash again
in blood and thunder
And then employ the simple townsfolk
to fulfill a need as old as the race itself,
for who else is left
to gather the dead.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I find something interesting about this poem. It is close to the reality of the lands where battles are fought. In this modern world, whole nations who wage war can be completely removed from the actual consequences of battle, resting in a chair watching the news. The kings no longer fight, leading the charge; all is left to the soldiers and suffering masses of some foreign land.
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Thank you
Thanks for the positive comment. You express what I felt. War is removed, idealized by reports. The gruesome reality is only known by the combatants, victims, and families of the dead and wounded. Yet another example of the stupified masses blindly accepting what they are told... Uh oh, degenerating into rant again. Thanks for commenting.
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