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Faster than dust storm duels,
Whip and swish like two fools.
Rocks sting, battle lingers,
On the field now so calm.
On the plain now it feels wrong.
Little wind, small breeze,
Without a coat, surely freeze.
I stand on the field and look out.
I stand and wonder what it's about.
What happened here,
What made the ground leak like this?
What made these fountains,
Here in the plain.
What made these gouts of blood
Spring like springs in spring?
Iron red stains my shoes.
Iron red, people rue.
Iron and red and blood and dead.
Could they still be here,
Could those bodies still linger,
Is that what the people fear?
That this blood might well flow
From the hearts of those they loved?
Eternally gouting, eternally hurting.
We move on, we move north.
Move south and east and west.
Centuries pass, the blood flows on.
The blood flows on and on at last.
Spreads in spider web form.
It trickles in a net, in a reaching out.
In a touching everyone on who it sets -
Part of it's course.
These plain these dead, these loves
This bread, this wine, body and blood.
But these days, the blood has dried.
The mothers no longer cry:
For their sons who were cut down.
For their sons who bled to death
And were put to rest and were the best.
These days, we cry for our own troubles.
These days our sons cannot be cut down,
Because they do not grow.
They do not know.
They have no spot in any plan.
They have no race they have ran.
They have nothing, nothing, nothing.