Warplanes blot the sun  

With their pitch-black moan,

Twisting and gliding

And spiraling undone  

–

There is business at hand

That of clearing and culling

To the hangman’s refrain

“For the siblings we lost”

–

There’s an undead scream

Lifting over the wire

An outburst, a prayer

A mother’s stifled goodbye

–

Who will carry the blame

When the earth grows cold,

Dark and withered 

After seasons of war?