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The Bones
A river flows,
To and fro it goes,
Over polished river stones.
Through a green and sunny meadow,
a meadow,
full of bones.
The carpet of green on which they lie
seem to mock what lies thereon,
The remnants of an army
Now bleaching in the sun.
Their weapons rusted,
useless now
Their swords, and slings, and stones,
lay like their users on the ground,
amid the ivory bones.
A skull looks up with its staring gaze
It seems for life to pine,
as does its cracking femurs, the humerus and spine.
It is with measured, careful step
An observer treads the grass
as if afraid to disturb the dead
that fate had took so fast.
For what they fought, it matters not.
forgotten is their cause,
but every weary traveler,
takes time to think
to pause
So the owners of the bones it seems,
had not all died for naught,
for all the men that look on them
cannot but help be taught
That there is no point to lift the sword
when peace can still be had,
or else become a gaping skull
with the sockets staring sad.
On this battlefield the bones have taught
many passersby, that before they lift a hand to strike,
to always question why,
Or else become like those rattling things,
with the wisdom that they loan,
at rest in a grassy meadow,
on a battlefield
of Bones.
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This article has 17 comments.
This poem contains such a great balance of realism and hope for society. "The wisdom that they loan" is my favorite line. Truly, this young person understands many things the leaders of the world have yet to learn.
