Knees quake, stagnant faces caressed smearing red, smearing salt across painted dress. Some eyes barren, some eyes gone, stomachs lurched and stomachs drawn. Mountains with their moss play bed to fallen boys, to their wasted lungs powder does still cloy. Rivers play mother’s cool arms washing way the mess of harm. Within in the field are stepping stones of flesh, made colored canvas with wounds still fresh.
These boys have died a thousand deaths a thousand different ways sometimes several thousand a day losing each and every choke of air. All morning rebirth is an unlucky fate, for fellow friend’s faces freeze mid-word mid-breath mid-life. Their warm splatter upon your skin, a hole in their head you were yours.
And these bullets, these bayonets are bombarded on you, on your boys by your brothers. Who you have loved. Who you have touched. With whom you have sung your song.
These boys Are not fighting for cause or crime or love or what heats the mind. You fight. You die. Your bodies are reborn. You bleed for those seeming Caesars for those napping Napoleons who dust powdered sugar off their plump lips and canter over each cobblestone as if it were a country.