Before him go the armies, the metals shining.
Up the green hill
go the hobbling women spitting smoke,
the processions of sadly missed wives.
So much spent muscle and bullet.
So many stopped quarrels.
The shoemaker but sleeps.
The bird sings in the high trees.
There is a silence of wheat.
Who owns the dead who are always dead –
men once trees in their own land,
women desirable as water?
He spits on his hands grey with earth.
He rules with a shovel.
His spade speaks for him.