by Gary Charles Berliner

Created on: April 03, 2009

"The Line"

Our cannon do not sound so often now

There rings a voice of "ONWARD", clarions blow

'Tis not the first time we've turned sop I'll trow

Though even here the valiant linger slow

And farmer's hands still sow a different crop,

Their work more fevered with each chop.

Now shadows vault to do their chore,

When then in tatters, torn asunder,

Lies my heart on gray swept moor.

The colored flowers stretched upon these stones

Lend nothing to our thunder's sour note,

All while the wind goes 'whipporl-whirl'

And I stand blanched upon this mote

of sorrowful earth.

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