The wind arrests the plain in chilly light:
what place is this, that marks each silent name?
In blaring grand triumphal march we came
to stand this ground, the broken field of night.
Beneath the marble blessings heroes lie
in sullen wrath, a bone of discontent
on scattered ash. A letter never sent:
come find me here, for here I come to die.
This is the rusting church where speech grows numb,
if we could speak, with tongues of smoke and lead
felling each fragile hand and gaping head
at rasp of dawn where dreams gasp and succumb.
Bought and paid for, we rose to do your will,
and will no more. The stars rise bright, and still.