Not For Them

A poem about World War 1. (ich totete is German for I killed) (J’ai tue is French for I killed) (Yellow mist refers to Mustad Gas) Not for them this poem of life for the pen is full of blood. Writing the names of yesterday on lichen memorials washed by the tears Of these forgotten years. Not for them a sunny day only shadows from the cross. Hiding their faces from tomorrow. Stored in this warehouse of silence, kept secret by churches reverence. Not for them to burn this candle of innocence their light was sold for war. To search out death in no man’s land for machine gun and snipers hand. Not for them the words of love or the gift of flowers for only poets can pick their dreams. No nightingales and moonlit nights or gentle caress upon the shore. For death is but a moment, Inspiration dies, with the pain in soldiers eyes. Not for them to sleep in peace or to wake to mothers bread. Only memories of a yellow mist, for the banshees long to be kissed. Not for them to lie to God to say we did not kill. For in death they can all say Ich tötete, J'ai tué, I killed. We who came from Eden, are now comrades in heaven. Not for them to know the future for we see only the graves. Let this be our peace, less we forget the meaning of war. And pray historians will never write again, with a pen full of blood, this poem, Not for them.