Though old with the obscenity of war,
it draws him still, in all its atrocity,
better is he with the privations of hell
and the last peel of the last bell
than as the bearer of such heartbreak;
telegrams curt on papers buff, that sear
and stab the flesh to heart, as burning steel.
He prays they're kept in darkness a while longer,
still taken with sleep, before they will weep
when tragedy falls from his hand;
the new dawn's light will work the terrace
rows along, yet it will gain no purchase on
the drawn curtains and black ribbon doors
of this place of tears and pure white lace;
the looms will be still, silent factory and mill,
no ale will be pulled, no crying bairn lulled,
shops will be shut, none shall work the cut
they won't be back they of the houses black;
they left with smiles, singing their songs,
ready to right somebody's wrongs
but the scything guns,
cut down our sons,
unto tatters and bones
and tidy white stones;
of these chains, his burden, he does not speak,
this man of grace and wounds unseen
who carries a leper's mark of Cain,
his satchel full of young men slain,
there are so many, one for every door,
he left his unopened, where it fell
from his fingers to the floor
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