Poetry

A HUNDRED AND A THOUSAND

Sing of the soldiers dead
Sing for that hanging head.
Sing into the abyss of those gone
What has been fed still lies ahead

A hundred sons traveled
under the sun their accents broke,
divided to quench the thirst of the desert
those amongst them were hounds that bore no souls.
A thousand armies waited for them
for blood to taste their sword edges,
for tears to bath their moving grounds.
No clouds to guide them
no salt for the water.
Hear these words and page them stories
talk of sanctuaries broken and torn down,
but don’t forget the trodden patched with earth,
Where all men go even a hundred and a thousand too.

Sing of the soldiers dead
Sing for that hanging head.
Sing into the abyss of those gone
What has been fed still lies ahead

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