“The Wasteland’s Cry” (Poem)
By: Ride Hamilton
The Wasteland’s Cry
Pastures blessed by crosses rushed before exhausted homes.
Dispatches, silent in sour bloom — are closing fresh petals’ sight —
Soldiers drunk on quick fear stumble and hide their hearts and bones,
Each fate waits their roll, each beloved garden far from light.
Neutral bursts and bullets gore the paper of artistic air!
Compose screams of morning men to mournful sound,
Painting through red brush and smoke with staccato glare —
Stench of dreams, nay, gorgeous hope drum into the ground.
Flower faces void of nectar wilt with pistil of despair.
These stalks of soldiers shed young leaves, yet shoot up will,
Against enemy who like themselves must both kill and care —
Each heart shelters shy from the gardener and shovel’s chill.
And in the end, when all is paraded and done,
This wasteland’s cry echoes round through our land,
Of lives turned sour, of battles borne and won,
Of sacrifice and courage, lovers hand-in-hand.
So let minds not forget those now shadows who have fought,
And those of light who still do, sun and night,
For among these brave naive stand ones who have sought,
To stay our world from darkness of war’s blight.
