NEEDING MAYBE A TITLE IN LATIN
But once a year
out of obscurity glory flares
in decisive moments every year
far from where bullets tore at the fabric
flags are hoisted high
to a grave whisper of tattered dreams.
No questions asked of why,
better to do and die.
Then the fabric is once more re-stitched
at small shrines again
tributes dusted down, candles lit
trying to make some sense of it,
why wars can always be justified.
We mumble to our inner selves
Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory