Standing in the shadow of Lone Pine
Among whirling flies,
dead fags , too fearful to light.
Red filmed eyes
puffed, survey the slope,
Studded with basking corpuses ,
taking in the sun.
Air humid and alive
the song of bullets beat tarnished ground.
What was the secret
not a politician’s promise.
This secret search of life,
fills the soul with burning emptiness.
Standing now on conquered ground,
When they fall
Eyes do not distinguish them,
rich nor poordark nor fair
weak nor strong
young nor old
What more does a conquered land desire,Apart from bleached bones