The Soldiers At Lauro

Young are our dead

Like babies they lie

The wombs they blest once

Not healed dry

And yet - too soon

Into each space

A cold earth falls

On colder face.

Quite still they lie

These fresh-cut reeds

Clutched in earth

Like winter seeds

But they will not bloom

When called by spring

To burst with leaf

And blossoming

They sleep on

In silent dust

As crosses rot

And helmets rust.