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Written on a very quiet evening. |
There is no blood
Only stones and dust On the battlefield where she lay Naked Rain running off her body As if she were tin Or alabaster And her hands lay in such a way Not at all magnificent. And every one of her soldiers Lay in rows They did not raise a hand Though they were beautiful And strong She let them die With that simple stare. He had no eyes And wore heavy clothes Hiding that his body was rotting. She had lived with him before And he had kept her silent When she heard herself wailing Between her ears. No birds Nothing growing One broken tree And her dead army Beyond her pale arms. And he does not move. She waits For his sword She waits For his gun. And she is wild from waiting As the wailing grows The rain rolling all the while With him just standing there Watching her And listening. Somewhere close A woman in black folds Her daughter In a little white blanket. And holds her in the chair That her husband carved With his slow and gentle hands The rain is here too And doesn’t stop for her As she holds the baby to her breast And weeps. No battle No blood. Only the insistence of rain. The silent woman In her battlefield With her torn back. The man comes And wraps her in blankets He holds her to his chest Without a word She listens to his heartbeat She listens to the wailing So she knows they are one. And her heart is broken. |