Far the horizon, of the rough silent ground
camouflaged with the flowers
from the fountains of blood
where the last of dignity lost
framed through the teeth
of the hungry, hoar frost
recognize the face with puzzled indignation
en dowered with the madness of fear
and glimpse and understanding, laced with the echoes, of contradicting tears

the desiccation of the sinews complete
long the chalky bones brushed
worn by the jaws of age to emptiness
lost in the strewn sands
neglected by all save the wind
to twist and twirl to the dance of the dust
from the signature of the bloody cramped hands
desperate to place
the last of the forgotten screams
to a single remembered face