Ancient Tunes

If you sent me to the front lines

I would sing an ancient tune

And sheathe my sharpened knife.

My armor would lie silent in dew

While the restless horses

Nip at grass and shake their manes.

Commanders would rally their forces

And with trumpets announce their campaign.

But give me a lyre instead, or something with strings,

And parchment, pencil or pen,

I will watch from this meadow of Spring

Until dawn stabs the moon in the horizon.

War masters with no horse

And aimless horses with no masters,

The fatal match runs its course

When all is left in blood splatter.

At night the dead lurch through soil

And ask about my writing,

But I tell them not to bespoil

The songs that praise their dying.