by Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
Carl Sandburg. Like John McCrae, he's not a Trench Poet. So why have I included him here? Well, similar to how my mood was captured by McCrae's "The Anxious Dead," my sentiments at the moment are best exemplified by Sandburg's "Grass."
I am emotionally exhausted. I fear that though there may be an end to this war, there won't be an end to the hate.
I'm afraid it will plod along, across time and continent.
I'm too upset, really, to talk about this right now. Oddly. I'm use to talking or writing things out. It helps me deal with my feelings. That's why so many of my posts as of late have been preoccupied with the war in Iraq. I'm sorry, readers, if this blog has become a tedious read for you, but this is my blog and I do need to get some things off my chest. Please bear with me, though. I'm going to try to scale back my ranting (not just for your sake, but for mine, as well--I have papers to write) a bit. The poetry will keep appearing, though, as long as I can find it for however long the current conflict lasts.
But I'm afraid there may not be enough to last out the hate.