we take refuge among the low hills of wildflowers, the place of
a thousand journeys. it sings a song that we cannot hear; it brings
simple treasures that we cannot take. we were soldiers, no longer
needed to march.
we were soldiers once, lured by the call of the bugle, the thunder of
violence, & the mouth of the cannon, more ensorcelling than a
woman’s lips. there were women who desired to love us, though
they knew we made for the field of battle when the trumpets blew.
they waited in their hermitage, made of silence & tears. they watched
a window that might frame their furied, broken angel, looking homeward.
in these low hills, the music, morose, breaks free at last –
who put the sad songs back among the old songs…
(Art: Kelly Ann Thomas)