Will soldiers see
eyes that meet? Weeping
while uncovering sheltered
bodies, captured in soil,
watered under
skies full of grief.
A ruin full of them,
hearts that gleam if only
to scream. Hearts that beat
if only to sleep.
Upon an unknown day
when heat has risen,
shelter will be
nowhere ideal to pray.
A mother’s arms,
her child’s harms
healed at a brush from
a hand. His tears tasted
for his sweetness of growth,
apart from pain, into gain.
Not as a stain,
when kept to his
chosen lane.
When Hell beats down
a sun upon a soldier’s face,
who will be there
to grace his lips with water,
other than those
from eyes he never met?
Modern Romanticism 
Very nice. Thanks for sharing.
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