A November Day

A November day,
Usual, it seems,
Clouded sky and invisible Sun,
Empty trees and their fallen leaves
Sadness heaped, lying indifferently.

But, is there a difference of order -
Whether we pressed a button,
Or they pulled a trigger,
Whether they fired into a crowd,
Or we bombed from the air,
To look into the eyes of the dead,
This morning-after,
And to feel this stillness of bodies, meaningless ends,
Of the slain and the slayer. 

There would be memories to deal with,
And fears to overcome,
Is this war inside us
Making us less human.
The battles that would follow,
The promised heaven in return
All be stained with indifference,
And sadness overhung.

So, this day, freeze,
Remain with us as we live,
The November day of indifferent death,
And waste of all that could have been.


















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