they are all the same

from a distance
the warrior (noblemanlymacho)
glorified cold and deadly
hard as steel

close by
the thin ribs
touched my fingers
skin transparent soft over hard sharp bones
ribs within stretch breath pulse heart beat


They are all the same
the doomed youth
their heads glory-full of dreams
wasted on futile battlefields.
Boy would be a man
hard and merciless
Cutting off to win
and leaving life lived pain

He will not be saved from the fate he has chosen.
Who could have the power to usurp false-promised riches?
He will march on even though he knows
he will lose, for others will gain

Yes I felt his fear.
Half-lying, lounging seemingly relaxed
but shoulders-blades jut behind: expectant, tense.
Narrow long fingers tremble
pawn in another man's game, no ease

I sang, I who do not sing,
a sweet dissonant lament
I found when I bent my head it echoed
haunting, pure
wrapped me too in its inevitable loss, its melancholy.



Thank you for the Henry Moore Goslar Warrior, at Kew Gardens.
What an onlooker might have thought watching me, I did not think.