Out of war’s gaping jaws he comes 
eneviled and snarling 
splattered with another’s blood 

 

He halts, teethbared, before the fragile bodies 
arrayed in a faltering rank 
parched 
famished 

beaten down by a fate not their own 

prematurely aged 

swaying like rags 

on the flaming wind 

 

The hand, rapacious for what is not his 
(while what is crumbles through its fingers) 
shoves rifles between their fingers 
born to caress 

 

He tells them: Fire! 
 
And they fire — 
into their own time.