In The Name of the Soldier

This is the valley
of the soldier. Skin
becomes the gun. Whose
bullet crushed your bones;

what decent man would
fail to mourn you?

There are doors
on every battlefield;
each one of them an iron veil.

You have gone through yours.

O! green tree lie down
your blossoms wilting,
unfortunate beauty try
your wings.

On a stone, cold
and black as porcelain
your name, your lasting


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