The night was black as anthracite.
The moon was the eye of a fevered child
flickering and far, clouded with fright.
Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe
against the waves;
day came too late.
In the rubble and rack that sun revealed
no life stirred, no idea of steel
no souvenir of will, forgotten but worn
warm as a gold cross under the shirt, no grace
clean as new snow on
a winter grave.
So it's goodbye to those who burned for peace
and went to war, to flowers' caprice
dried in bloody scoria poured at their feet,
to those dead at the gate
that can't be passed through.
Day comes too late.
for Fireblossom's Bang! you're dead
Image: Night, 1890, by Edward Munch public domain