By Richard George
Beside the burnt out remnants
of this place,
I saw the lifeless hand above the earth.
Here was war - the horror of its face.
For this - for this, a man was given birth.
grave would scarce the body hide,
Akimbo sprawled: the hands
were still and gray.
I could not pass but knelt down by his
To scrape the soil, and cover from the day.
These hands, I said, once moved and felt and knew
The warmth of other hands, and touched things dear,
had picked fruit, or flowers grew,
Or turned bright wheels,
or trailed through water clear.
But now no life beneath my burning
I tried to hide which might have been my own,
Dead fingers here which once at life did clutch,
But now I press them down, alone-alone.
It seems so
strange, the unexpected things
Which one is called to do in
times like these,
My mind revolves and childhood memory brings
The tears I shed, and now cannot grieve.
Only some deep down pain I cannot show
Wells in my
heart and floods without a sound,
For this quiet heap where
grasses will soon grow,
For him who knows me not beneath this