Delighted the skies are full of iron

The mad statesmen rejoice,

Consumed in the rot  

Of all their loveless years

–

Disquieted exiles  

Of crowded hearts and busy minds,

Dream of aimless convoys

Carving slivers of turf

–

There’s a thirst they’ll never conquer

With the arc of their missiles,

A persistent old hunger

Too fortified to bomb

–

Despite the winding columns

Of the orphaned and widowed,

Who march from their craters

Grateful for their pulse