In blue and gray
they died in rows,
then beasts of battle –
vultures, crows –
came down among
the brown and red,
and on the once-strong
bodies fed.
A battlefield,
a call to mourn
the generations
never born;
like lights unlit
these less-than ghosts
who hang by fields
and unmarked posts —
The quiet is
our enemy:
he bids us watch
and makes us see
the senselessness
of much we do,
the blood that lies
beneath the dew —
They lined this place
with blue and gray,
and plaques and signs
to mark the way;
but whate’er might
have been the aim,
I will not leave
this place
the same
To share is human:
