Stars Over a Battlefield

Even in battle-  the stars like burning bees
trapped in their own dark honey, ignore
the dying.  Who can blame them;
they have their own worries.

Without compassion, the dead reshape
geography of bones, of rough-forged wounds,
of bleeding, memorize their own eulogies,
begin their slow descent

into violets and weed.

How can such beauty be un-mourned,
the un-natural in a natural world
confirm its certainty?

As for apathetic stars:  merely leftover
light on an unending journey, not unlike
recurrent dreams we have of resurrection.
Who can understand their jealousies,

their cold indifference?

1 comment:

hyperCRYPTICal said...

A superb thought-provoking write.
Anna :o]