A Pile of Unpolished Words
High up, in her downy nest beside her, the drying eggshell rest,
Far away the warblers seek the worms. Far away looms the summer storms,
Like letters send news the newly born. The soldier happy midst nettle thorn,
Reads the letter from peaceful ways. Far from the clatter and din, close affray—
The thickets smeared in a brothers blood sworn to survive the war aflood;
Yet life renews in the quiet wood where sings a sparrow 'neath a leafy hood.
Where rain rivulets dripped from pouring skies, raining down like meteors upon the dragon flies,
The overlapping ringlets atop the welling mere, lessen as the skies grow ever clear,
Letting verging parents search for food, 'neath the fallen leaves and bramble-wood:
Will their eyes delight as home they alight? The stars shudder o’er war as envelopes night,
Silent the moon drifts upon the waving tide. Streaking silver light that truth divide.
What cause can make right the drear of war. The chick, her beak agape, wanting more—
The sparrow regurgitates from some endless core. The dying soldier promises his love evermore;
He clasp the letter, wishes things were better. Rolls peals of thunder from inclement weather—
The grove hides away father, mother, and child. The slake of war wanders forth ever wild.
Nature howls with thunder when she cries. War sees not her tearing eyes—
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