Past the spiral turrets
of floating whims, violent fancies
and submerged fields,
the door's ajar.

Across the fog of forgotten lives,
spent shells, magazine droppings and shrapnel.
A spirits cowers in shadowed retort — too say
"bury your cross, up ahead",
run with panting hooves,
run no quicker than
turn no faster than
into the glass eye of one,
the wooden leg of another,
the metal tongue of a third,
hear the silence of our ghost,
its unashamed gnashing and whispered sighs
cajole our clay soul into savage domains,
with wind and salt and comely gesture

We give all to the hero,
who stands deaf in the parade
of trumpets and inverted drums,
who cannot see the flutter of fading civilians
scatter like a leaves,
who cannot hear the witty remarks
or incoming implication
of anothers explosive laughter.