From their cold, studied perspective above
The wind holds, and squinty eyes capture the choicest with god-cruel clarity:
A concentration of nimble lines, off-white, some round, some bloodied, all ready.

Below, broken fragments, wheels with histories, stories of bravery,
Unrecognizable vehicles, sagas of the grand and the sad together,
Put together, handed down pieces for the weavers of words
To recall later on, stringing it all together
Long after the cleaning.

On the eighth day, the sun began to sing
Invitations to the unholy feast
Carried by the foul air,
To the far mountain corners where
Leaping forward, driven and driving,
Cutting the air with warlike shrieks of celebration
They descended.

Glory and death, brown, dust-grey shrouds,
Boots solidly on the ground waiting,
The ancient timekeepers – the sands –
And the wind which forever blew the
Cries of the wounded and dying
To the eternal distant mountains
Or swelling seas, who watched with impassive certainty
The regular goings on of each generation.

Wherever they begin, they end the same:
The hills of Afghanistan,
The sands of Pacific islands,
The corners in Paris,
The jungles of the Congo,
The streets of Stalingrad,
The dry mountains of Chile,
The sewers of Warsaw,
The flat lands of Iraq,
The fields of the Dakotas,
The gardens of Babylon,
The same.

The many tales recorded,
Told though the tongues of
The men who weren´t there, savored by the sons who shouldn´t,
Are all kept firmly in memory by the hungry birds,
Returning to somber hillsides,
The plains, and the streets,
Year after dying year.


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