The Eleventh

The Eleventh

Eleventh hour,
Eleventh day,
Eleventh month.

Beside you a man lay dying,
Long since forgotten what for.
Gurgling happiness, hysteria
Kicks in
As in heaven or on earth,
His soul is satisfied.

Buckling earth, bomb-breached
Sighs its bursting relief.
Unknown men torn across sodden fields
Doused in restless rain,
As civilised crows restlessly rip and ravage
Helpless ironic meat.

Mud as flesh.
You bury and rejoice in celebration of exception.
A tear of happiness drowned by one of sorrow,
As the veil of blooded bullets falls.

The absurdity of silence,
The freakish empty air,
You cannot comprehend a life of comfort
Of peace or of justice,
You know only savagery,
Brothers dead as numbers.

Men forget hate and retouch bliss.
Coloured water celebrates life without death
On their trodden, earthen podium,
As groaning rifles clatter to the ground.

For years these filthy tubes have been your home,
Yet only now do you see them.
You rise as if lifted
and in no man's land you stand,
The silence deafens you,
You fall to your knees and beg to vanish,
As your liquid grief joins untold anguish.

The agony of conflict subsides.
The torment of a generation is born.