At the depot, we all will disembark. While the steam engine turns, To return the way we came. He reaches for my hand. And he smiles. The battlefields, long empty, are peopled now, with the living dying, and the dying living, and brother meets brother again in the center of the cyclorama and strives to heal the unspeakable wound.
Grief colors the world in somber colors.
Like the young life the leaves blaze briefly then yield place to branches bared to the long winter of the soul.