We fought the war
and rejoice it's gone
and know we had victory.
So now I can rest
by this open chest
with old tears and memories.
 
It leaves me, some times,
with each dying year,
frozen in me, as then,
till I hear the clap
of a cannon shell
when I thought it left few men.
 
Perhaps I still stumble
those weary miles
sleepwalking on the track,
delayed more by
our own mortar fire
raining down our back.
 
So once I saw the sun
behind some trees
finding the ground ice red,
staring slackjawed,
then looking down
at my frozen feet, instead.
 
And then it was clear,
in that cold, bloody mess
lost in that attack,
just a partial mound
of a raw recruit,
with only his tags intact.
 
And, no, I didn't know
these butchered men
frozen dead now long ago,
because I did what
soldiers did and, yet,
could I have tried to know?
 
So I sometimes resist,
and, sure, I don't resist
these grim memories of war,
because now I can rest
as I close this chest
and pray we return no more.