An empty grave — that’s “cenotaph” in books;
so here we stand by emptiness, and weep
and guns’ salute and words and flags and deep
sad silent prayers we overflow like brooks,
And jets fly overhead: we keep our looks
deep underground some other place where sleep
is cold and bodies shattered silent cheap
and guns sing softer than a lofting rook.
And home we drive and speak of how the old,
old vets are older and the young too young,
and “Flowers of the Forest” was so sad;
and then we warm our bones with whiskey cold.
Is this a noble song that we have sung?
or is our music void: a cenotaph?
