‘You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.’ —W.B. Yeats
Battlefields were gone long ago, bones turned to dust
Thousands perished here feeding conquerors’ power lust
They were young once, full of ambitions and dreams
Life cut short in distant lands amid pain and screams
Call of duty, false pride or manipulated by the powerful
They came in hordes, primed to kill, but dying like fools
Promises unfulfilled, broken hearts’ lonely cries unheard
Silent cries crush the hearts of myriad orphans left behind
Crumpled statues litter the landscape, those who gave the war calls
Take heart lost ones, when the dust settles, the bell tolls for all
This poem is in response to Jane Dougherty’s A Month (November) with Yeats Challenge day Fifteen
Fleeting Muse 