Futility

He falls and hands clasped to his chest
recalls her slender, girlish breast,
that in the light of 'man's' disease,
will ne'er be his again, to please.

And as another flower dies,
beneath, these grey and leaden skies,
I reach to hold the petaled head,
still warm, though oh so clearly dead.

How many more buds, in their spring,
will 'Leaders' send, only to bring
back home in bunches, wrapped in flags
with medals pinned unto their rags.

Oh cruel Generals, do you sigh
and will you, as will sweethearts, cry.
Or would you mark expedience
upon graves of uncommon sense.

Do you not fear, when shallow breath,
shall signal your inglorious death,
that you shall meet, as your souls soar,
the souls of those, you sent to war?

By Chris Birrane © 2011