while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring
across the infinite expanse of day
while red or green before their posturing king
the battalions break and melt away
the monstrous frenzy runs a course
that makes 1000 men a smoking pile
poor fools, dead in the summer grass
on nature’s breast
who meant men to smile
replaced by wasted youth
and wretched forms
poor fools
while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring
across the infinite expanse of day
while red or green before their posturing king
the battalions break and melt away
the monstrous frenzy runs a course
that makes 1000 men a smoking pile
there is a god
who smiles upon us through
the gleam of gold
the incense-laden air
who drowses
in a cloud of murmured prayer
and only wakes
when weeping mothers bow
empty
when weeping mothers bow
themselves in anguish
and their last small coin
into his coffer falls
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