Casualties of War

This winter I will think of them often,

those battle stars and battle scarred

who are danced by death. Under a stainless

moon, I will chant their names into collective

memory, light candles for those with no

names so they do not die alone.

In the time of cold, I will warm

their families, take vows of peace.

In the time of rain, I will dry their tears,

rebuild their houses--pay homage to the blood

and broken dreams that stain our honor.

I will carry with me in a pocket filled

with headstones, the luminous eyes

of a child without hope, the yearning

to go home on a young soldier’s face.

I would go to their villages, plant flowers

near their walls, ask for forgiveness.

The wine of destruction is a heady brew,

fomented by grapes of wrath. Drunk

with the death of enemies, lovers

of battle have deadened themselves.

I will not watch the river until they are sober

nor forget the sounds of war.