War Mars the Face of Man
War mars the face of Man,
Pitied, unpitied. Though
This be known to all men,
We realists connive.
Thrice-prancing priests in March
Have made red their faces,
Have conspired to despoil
Anew summer’s increase,
Overmuch not caring
For those about to dye
Crimson Plutonic plains,
To expire in the dark.
War, Mars, the face of Man?
Copyright © Julian Scutts | Year Posted 2020
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