The End of a Ceasefire

Late season

morning fog

hangs low,

a veil upon the ground,

concealing the fate

and passage of the night.

A breeze stirs

in the orphan leaves of November

and the Earth,

she parts her veil

and lets the long gone starlight

bless her cheeks.


A gibbous moon,

forsaken in the sky,


where it once shone

in honorary,

lending waning light

to kiss the face

of the morning

after the war.


Every ditch a grave

and every rock

a tombstone.

Every puddle,


and tears,

black with the rain.


As the fog relents,

the ground gives up her dead.

One by one,

the tepid moon anoints them.

The wind gusts up,

one time,

a rush of breath

taken quickly,

stirring up the leaves

in great waves

over the ground

to cover up the bodies

fallen in their place.

The Earth

conceals her sins

like an adulteress.


Low upon the East,

a furnace glow

and soon,

the march will start again.

The secret

of the morning is kept

for the lips

of the dead

are sealed.



HG – 2019

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