War Dead In The Pass Of Kasserine Poem by Roy Ballard

My bones are picked clean
here in bleak Kasserine
where I might have survived
if only I'd dived
in the handy latrine
when the salvo arrived.

Here I lie dead,
my blood on your head.
I could never be sure
you were worth fighting for;
that your merits all told
had the worth of astraw.

My lips and my eyes,
dumb and blind to your lies,
should be opened at last
but I lie in the past
with no voice to complain
that I lie here in vain.

Unpeaceful I lie
under you and your sky;
under verses uncouth
that belittle the truth;
take my curse and be gone.
Let your life linger on.