A Poet's Piece

He certainly can be, for mankind,
The key.
The ocean to yacht, and a find.
The sun of the day, a sign. A star
For the night sky,
For those who fight none.
For those adrift,
He is our lift
He who is sought
A way, for those who are afar,
For those who have fought.
It is he who we buy, he
Who is bought. He is the gift,
It is he who is wrought,
He who has sifted
An end to our lot. It is his hour, His power,
His call, his heedless dissentions,
The need to lead the fall of
Graveyard tensions.
It was his card,
And to those who
Bard his mentions
On a war action's times
Told in his rhymes,
His words, heard by all,
By both young and old,
An oathe sung and told to the herd;
Told to all fractions,
Sold to all frictions.
That which led us to believe,
Read war is a deed.
Said instead to those dead,
in their tomb;
And said to whom fled:
War is to grieve,
Whether it is led or we lead,
We've bled and will bleed
To any such need . . . But to those who have stalled
And fell
For those who crawled and yelled;
And those sworn to the newborn,
Of whom ought not live in such a hell:
Said war is to quell.
Yet, to those who bard his mentions
Of such floods,
Well, they've bled,
And of blood. . . . of that, what is war

by Gene A. Gaspar

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