What compels me to go,
Where downcast brows and heavy hearts reside?
After hundreds of years I still can see,
The blood painted underfoot.
Now there is grass,
Growing from the bodies of unmarried boys.
Now there are trees,
Growing from the rifles of promising sons.
They tan for eternity under burgundy sun.
Their medals now usless.
Rusting away with the scraps,
Of their uniforms, tattered and torn.
The ground opened wide when the first shot was fired,
On the faithless day when North met South.
When brother stamped brother,
From the face of the Earth.
Then the firing died and,
Finally, the smoke ghosts cleared.
Finally, the moans trickled away.
Finally, there was silence in the bone yard,
Where no bone yard previously stood.