Goya's 'Distasters of War'
the dead are a field in
themselves
the fresh mown
have the future spread over them
not evenly though
you couldn't predict
and there are the living
the well, the ill
all attitude
some scratch at the sky
some cast eyes down
to keep going
it could go on for a while
how precious every mother's son
attired in all the battle's soot
and with both boots still on
This is a heart-breaking poem full of grim images. The "turn" in the final stanza is beautiful.
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