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