the wind, but rather voices from the mouths of boots
that cry out names: la Fevre, Buzzell, Mulcahy, Wall
among the names of shipmates, men with whom I flew.
We plant their empty boots in rows paired side by side
to recognize and mourn each fallen warrior
whose blood now feeds the thirsty earth in violence
and seeds another generation's boots lined up
around the earth. We love these leather necklace boots
from every fallen warrior from every fight
in every conflict, every place and time since man
first exited the cesspool under Eden's gate
and slew his brother Cain, whose sandals are the boots
first planted in this necklace chain of lust and greed.
the names another chain cries out - a necklace wrapped
one hundred fold around the earth, paired side by side,
the bloody footfalls of uncounted casualties,
civilian residue of bombs and guns and mines,
collateral of this unholy sport of war.
No boots to cry their names, the wind alone is left
to wail for them their anguish: Why? What did I do
but dream tranquility...or wish for peace...or pray?
Because I knew or loved the necklace boots? Because
I knew of hate of love? I never loved this chain,
unwilling footprints I would never recognize,
these neighbors of misfortune whom I did not know.
So why is my name lost in bloody footprints here?
of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons,
and spouses, lovers left behind all these whose boots
and footfalls wrap the wounded earth. Were furnace heat
of so much fear and hate that launches wars to parch
the ocean beds, the tears of so much endless grief
would fill the vacancy and pound the shores in rage.
Nor tears of these, the walking slain, nor tears of weeping
angels could suffice to soothe this ravaged world
and calm the wind whose voice is crying from the ground:
"Have you forgotten who you are? Is not the fire
within your soul but carbon in your fragile cells?
Is 'Ash to Ash' no more to you than aphorism
familiar in religion's mouth and sacred scripts?"
the earth, lost souls of wasted warriors and their
collateral. We plant like seeds their boots in rows
and wait the day the Tribunes may stand face-to-face
with them and gaze into the eyes of all the slain
from all the wars that men have ever waged and hear
their voices in the wailing wind cry out: " Enough.
No more. Give peace the strength to break these choking chains."
Their arrogance proclaims, '"You wouldn't understand
how they would do us harm; these bastard dogs desrve
to die. We would not fight, but Justice calls for war,"
as they go on condemning populations to
their slaughter, sacrificing pawns and moving knights
across the squares while we continue planting boots.