poem15 Jul 2019 08:00 am
Dead Soldiers, László Mednyánszky  (1852–1919)   

Andrew L. Roberts

the dawn chills the air and lays her veil
soft upon my upturned face
shattered stones and blasted bits of mortar press
sharp against my broken spine and I am surrounded now
by the damp nutmeg of your sycamore leaves and ashes
how did you find me among so many?
was it fate that brought us together in this place
or only chance after all?
I did not want this kind of ending
my flesh and bones left to become anonymous
and lost forever in this foreign patch of dirt
but the choice was never mine was it?
or if it was I must’ve missed the moment of its choosing
to have stumbled so blindly into my own un-dug grave
yet here I am and here I will remain
and here you are with me this morning
caught in the worst kind of affair
your whispered words are meaningless in my ear
dead words from a dead language for a dead man
how can they sound so sweet?
tenderly and with more love than I have ever known
your cold hands enter the wound in my chest
to find and cradle my heart
you say my name
and that word at least I understand
you say it three times over and then it’s done
breathless I can no longer see the sun
only those cold stars in your dark eyes
as you press your lips to mine in this our first and final kiss.

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