Kerri Shying R # 549 - of every war frontier skirmish

it is time hear the   carriage clock

ticking   in the night   let   the alarm

sing  soft   on the half  of every hour

 think of what was  wasted    in the mud

 sand  grass    in the city    on woodlands

of every war   frontier    skirmish

count them all before     sleep  recedes

behind the call of    too loud heart   beats 

the kind that    go on thinking   in the night

when  words have done   speaking    loss

and shame   there’s a hand    that rewinds