All Was Quiet In The Valley Below

In The Hills The War Raged Ever On. 

Sheets of cloud hang low on the horizon. 

Smokes from charred things -- burning buildings, bodies --

Cloak the greens of lowland Spring in argent. 

A pregnant rill absconds for some far sea. 

A soldier, stale, reclines against a scarp

With the nape of her neck drowned in caustic sweat,

Stares; she's bent, angled stiffly at the hip,

Grit lines her eyelids and her tears no longer fall. 

Her hands, frost-bit, entombed amidst cinders,

She's still as an hour-glass supine, lifeless.

Cradle her warmly, Nature; she is cold. 

All is quiet in the valley below;

Here in the hills the war rages ever on.

She blinks. Grace holds yet the high-country. 

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