ON HISARLIK

Humid, windy hill guarding bronze age ghosts,

Your walls hold the screams of battle and men.

Where weeds grind slowly between now and then

Light flashed off the glinting spearheads of hosts.

Crashing shields and helmets beneath the sun

Brought the burning pyres to bloom on the sand.

A spear wrenched out and armour stripped by hand,

Such mortal glory a prize to be won.

 

Sorrow's shaft drove deep in each gain and loss,

As a war cry penetrated each stone.

Wild and pitiless hill, what bleeds your moss

And shows that bronze sleep driven into bone?

What words spurted and clawed into the dust

Reached our blinded sight with memory's rust?