Devils flee killing fields at night
when earth is bathed in silver light.

Golden moon against velvet black;
life's racing tide again is slack.
Soft breeze purrs in the canopy
as heaven unveils its panoply;
and weary souls sigh as the twilight dies.

At the rising of dawn's great flood,
each searing day is drenched with blood.
Muscle and sinew strain to the task;
and burning eyes are raised to ask
why such beauty clothes this place
of apocalypse and smoking waste?
And the spirits sigh from a blinding sky.

So, in the morass Death let us pass,
now slowly exacts revenge at last.
That shattered land still haunting now;
its memories blazed on furrowed brow.
Tormented minds, tortured with pain,
scream at the spectre of the sword again;
and the Phantoms sigh at their every cry.

© 30 June 2001

R.B. Lewis

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