O’ obelisk, granite, grey, etched in sorrow,
Not so aged standing firm amongst the tall grasses;
Ne’er swaying though battered by wind and storm and history of war.
Your fields and gently rolling hills show no remnants of ball and shot,
Rivers of blood flowing across riverless plain.
The living perished here as surely as the dead those days,
Pitting brother against brother, for many, the reason elusive,
For honor, family, country, their fellow man, it matters not
As corpses lay bloodied, broken,less than whole.
Fortifications of man were little match for hell’s fury,
Breaking limbs and spirit with each fiery volley.
Friends, who shared hot coffee and conversation over warming fire…gone,
Gazing into the heavens through milky eyes,
Awash in dirt and blood, they are in pain no more.
Thousands upon thousands scattered haphazard,
Turning once green fields scarred and crimson.
Claims that those that lived and died still walk with us persist,
Destined to relive, in clips repeating, horrors of life in death.
In the quiet, amongst the trees rustle,
Smell of smoke and sulfur, sound of shot, fatal yells may still be heard.
Yet with daylights glow the grasses wave in silent salute,
Alone, but ne’er lonesome,
Watched o’er by the towering granite sentry,
Etched with the names and dreams
…Of the fallen.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~