Under Heaven’s Gate we war dogs wait,
licking our wounds,
lapping at the ponds of time,
disturbing the still reflections of our deeds.
The oblivion of combat must have its birth in lost memories,
the scent of the hunt,
the thrill of the run,
the warmth of the kill.
And after the bison’s dead
an “I am”
screamed into the unknown,
a momentary personal reprieve from death.
Comrades by the score lose life and limb.
Others scream,
cries deafen ears.
Villages and cities become heaped stone.
And still
with burning zeal we shout,
“To Guernica and beyond!”
To what end,
for what cause,
do we spend our very best?
Why by virtue of our presence
do we think we’re always right?
And in the end,
whose politic lights the Season’s Fire,
holds the child’s hand?

 From Always Extolling: A Collection, Don Davison

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