The shadow of war is not as sharp
as the fear-stewed hope of victory.
War is not some aberrant cataclysm.
It is the feeding habit of fatuous men,
their need to tear down and suckle the rubble.
Many are eaten,
but few are fed.
The shadow of war
creeps out of Antietam and Flanders;
we remember the glory as innocently
as a mother her babe in arms.