blood and the clean-up squad

Are these corpses mine – or yours ?
                  We haven’t got enough bags
                                       let alone boxes
 
              Did these sockets hold eyes
                                      that saw your skies
     or mine ?
                            The greeks sing
                 of the greek sun

      do they know it warms the turks
                           & makes their poppies grow?

        And these, by the rock head, here ?
                                 (Jesus, what a blow)

             These? These are our dead, I fear
                Ours          sisters, sons and daughters
         our kin      our kith and kind         our foe

.

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