Their glasses rest in white gloved palmsFor in this world there is no impurity
Idle chatter like the prattle of innocent birds
Drifts unheard against the bombs exploding outside
I gaze at my hands, at the glass before me sitting
And everything is covered in blood
“What a great thing you have done,” they tell me
“You should be so proud of your son,” they tell her
The questions linger beneath their smiles
Its gore and death they desire
And that is all I should give them
“Oh, son, tell me of the war,” It finally is spoken.
“What shall I tell you?” Is my soft reply.
I keep the bitterness close,
I bear the stench of the grave
And in my arms I coddle my fear.
“Tell us of the glory!”
“Oh, but there is no glory there on that dark field,
Where screams pierce the morning air
And blood is the water in which you bathe.
No glory is there to be found among the limbs
The hands, the legs, and feet detached
That rest among the crimson daisies.
The medals and badges are forged in the flames of Hell,
Their ribbons are sewn from shaved hair,
The words ring hollow against the ears of the sleeping.”
I pause to watch their fingers tremble
Brown stains of dried blood taint their gloves
“Shall I tell you of the children?
For, mother, I have killed them.
I drift within their nightmares as a demon
My helmet is a death’s head, my gun a pitchfork
And in the streets my fires burst, and I dance upon
The ashes of their homes, I sing their dead to sleep.
Shall I speak of the families, of the sweet mothers
The mothers like yourself, clothed in gown and glove
The mothers that I struck down with my bombs
Their skirts all dyed a sinful red
Their tea tainted by blood and bile
Their memories destroyed with fire and gas.
Or perhaps the churches, I shall recall for you,
For, mother, I have burned them in the name of justice
Rumors are truly deadly things, and if a word is spoken
We must obey, lest we kiss our lovers
And taste their bitter lead.
And while you sit in comfort upon your silk and satin
Our bodies are pressed into graves of cold earth
Coats are our pillow and boots are our gold
Smoke blackens our lungs, their remains are retched onto the dirt
Our fields are painted red, our skies are black and grey
Our lullaby is the sounds of bombs and the roars of engines
Above our heads where the enemy flies.”
I smile as best as I am able as I press my lips against her brow
“Oh, mother, love, the things I have done in your name
Does it please you to know that the child you raised is dead?”
I hear the bugle outside and grab my hat as I step away
I hear the shattering of glass and feel the spray of blood
Against my cheek like a soft caress, I hear their screams
I hear their hushed voices in my ear, and I mount the stairs
There is no letter needed, no apologies to give
My only hope is that the rope will hold, and that I will swing
Swing as carefree as the child I once was.
