Crimson

What pile is this? Dumped –
Red rivers running down,
Against the wire slumped
Adorned with crimson crown.

Did you pray O quiet pile?
Did you say a prayer?
On the bloody battlefield
Angels do not dare.

I pity thee — you butchered youth.
You fought for naught, but lies
And now you gape at the truth,
Accompanied by flies.

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