Sacred Site
Standing in
the shadow of Lone Pine
Among
whirling flies,
Sucking,
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
Still alive,
not a politician’s promise.
Nor glory
This secret search of life,
fills the soul with burning
emptiness.
Standing now on conquered ground,
No pity
Nor compassion
When they fall
Eyes do not distinguish them,
rich nor poor
dark nor fair
weak nor strong
young nor old
What more does a conquered land
desire,
Apart
from bleached bones
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