He Is Dead

Hear them pray for the last time, their leather boots no protection still. Listen to the church bell chime. Hear the men ordering to kill. Turn off the radio. Stop the birds sing. Let her know what she already owe. Let the soldiers have that final drink. Tell them that all’s fair in love and war Tell them the trenches should become their home The scream of the dying they ignore As they recite a funeral poem His mother is crying And His brother is dying Now he stands still As finally he starts flying. The stars are not wanted anymore; put out every one. Lay him down in the cold floor and lay down all the guns. Write out the message ‘he is dead’, and let the sky bleed out that rich red.