When my thoughts wander fields
turned into trenches,
at dawn's lugubrious lightness -
wailing pipes summon young men
into the traces of shot
machined to still life,
and spurn dreams into holes
still warm from the toil
of those
whose deeds burdened bells
will extol.
When my thoughts are one
with their valour
at dawn's silent stillness
young men rise through the grass
that belies the carnage laid as their fate,
brows free of the furrows
from lives fully lived,
to stand and behold yesteryear's promise
of a sun's rise, quiet with peace,
burning the mist
the smoke of their battles,
and to wonder if their losses
were gifts to the world
or simply knots on the belfry's rope,
twisted witness to the toil
of those
whose deeds mournful bells
still extol.
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