we lay war
dead shoulder
to shoulder in blank
friendship,
line graveyards
in perfect rows
as if to confound
death with our preciseness.

startled by the carrion's blue
and winking eye
the child wonders
if this is how the hero feels,
sickened at the orange
taste of blood,
its warm way of covering
the hands and feet.

and when the hero
in his blond blood
comes before
the child for execution,
old men draw near
to whisper lies
that fill the ear
and stay the hand.

in perfect rows
the soldiers pass,
parades the child can learn
to march in,
machinery precise
complete with young girls
dressed in black
with dark blank eyes.