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The
Next War The long war had ended. Its miseries had grown faded. Deaf men became difficult to talk to, Heroes became bores. Those alchemists Who had converted blood into gold Had grown elderly. But they held a meeting, Saying, 'We think perhaps we ought To put up tombs Or erect altars To those brave lads Who were so willingly burnt, Or blinded, Or maimed, Who lost all likeness to a living thing, Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh For our sakes. It would look well. Or we might even educate the children.' But the richest of these wizards Coughed gently; And he said: |
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| 'I
have always been to the front
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