The burnished sunlight swam soft through the air,
a breath of breeze, majestic evergreens,
and in the dry-gold grass, a cold stone there
marked only with a number, hard and lean.
Surreal. The rows of markers stretched out through
the Pennsylvania soil, back from the gate
and down the hill, weathered by all those who
tromped on, oblivious to the young men's fate.
In a far-gone year, a blithe summer's day
upon this hill, the muskets slew the peace,
the dreams of the young men in blue and gray
and not for three days did the bloodshed cease.
Now still they lie, straight, cold beneath the stone,
others are here, yet I feel I'm alone.