Credit: Stijn Swinnen via Unsplash.
Iron bent, prehistoric post and lentle,
Chrome victory or metallic battle;
Savage men in armour, shields n’er enough,
Swords to slice, injure, nick.
Poison arrows that traverse an arc,
Death-calls rung, arrows afire still —
Burn nightmare orange in the macabre battlefield.
Perhaps, a wish that this’ s but an ancient scene past?
Worn soldiers, and the dead silenced;
Truth learned: War’s never glorious.
It doesn’t matter the treasure –bronze, iron, silver, gold, life, death, chaos, peace.
Nor the weapon or uniform, be it —
Silver earrings clinking, breastplates buckled, bulletproof vests zipped close.
Bracelets clashing with gauntlets, brass knuckles;
Swords swift, daggers, and cannons turning all to fodder.
Bazooka’s, rifles, flamethrowers, land mines, poison —
Worn or pointed with lion-courage, an ice gaze;
Amongst the looting of houses, alters, churches, and vaults.
Every tragedy in the trenches twisted,
Dirt flying, limbs, and bodies buried,
Explosions, napalm death, mustard gas;
Crushed with tanks, blown-apart —
Shot with machine gun-terror, fright of blitzkrieg warfare.
Each November we seek to remember, to recollect the horror;
To not only romanticize —
With letters of love penned and lost, last videos streamed from afar.
To justify the ‘why’ behind the pinning of honours,
To recall the terror cold dark, too real — as to never forget.
Horrific thoughts, memories weighted, vivid nightmares that never die.
Somehow we remember, but the memories blur —
Time passes; we wear our pins, poppies, cross our hearts, close heavy eyes —
Hold silent minutes.
Knowing that we can never know the loss — the cost,
Never know–know what is and was.
For most of us weren’t there, and never will be,
But then, pax is n’er forever not anywhere.
©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.