Wars are not won by any living thing,
flailing and blaring fuels the myth.
Nothing negates the carnage that they bring;
No heron rises on its broken wing.
Wars are not won by any living thing,
dead men chanting from ancient scripts:
Chorus of blight, resound your nervous ring,
glorious deeds leap from swollen lips.
Hymns whistle with wind on barbwire string,
clipped like cracks from automatic clips:
Nothing negates the carnage that they bring;
Wars are not won by any living thing.
Life’s wasted manhood mourns with every spring
severed youth rotting on windswept cliffs,
urgency and cause, but a forgotten thing.
Nothing negates the carnage that they bring.
A puppeteer plays with his broken gifts,
men like fools still follow his wayward trips.
Wars are not won by any living thing
Nothing absolves the carnage that they bring.
