I
am too old for war
but
I go, anyway,
or
in spite of; the war
demands
all. I see
a
sea of white linen
extending
up hillsides
of
this valley. I look
down
to see what
I
am wearing; the linen
is
the same. My hands
are
gnarled; old trees.
The
linen is the same.
The
sword in my hand
begins
to sing. I know
the
song, by heart.
I
have sung it before,
when
I was young,
too
young for war.
Photograph by Anna Langova via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
No comments:
Post a Comment