The Collection Poem by James Casey

The Collection

The rage of the sun burns through the ashes.
The wind carries them away.

The ground seems red and ruthless.
We sink to our knees to pray

The hollow horizon,
Haunts our tattered dreams;

They lay with their eyes wide open,
Their mouths in silent screams
.
We look down at our soiled hands,
Our broken fingernails,

Look out towards the ocean,
And see our burning sails.

The beach glows with the wine of men,
The birds circle overhead,

We cry shameful, bitter tears
As we collect the dead.

The artists and the sailors,
The soldiers and the kings,

The hysterics of the left behind,
The abandoned wedding rings.

The beating drum is silent now.
The banner no longer flown;

We look ahead to a future
That we have never known.

We honor those now at our feet,
With words and burning fires,

As they die, so do we,
On our shameful pyres.

The cause is gone, the fight is over.
We eat our spoiled bread.

As we dine on our last scraps,
And We collect the dead.

Jim 1968