Black words stain fresh the sepia scrolls of my dying imagination, 

Where but I, as a dim light glowing, amongst the smoke and fear.

Pain, a suggestion unheard, their boots in the dust moving swiftly by,

Dulled by rock, moist with imagined sweat, my sweet breath frozen.

Fragile thoughts fading, the iris bedded in the green,

My child within, yearning for that other chance to see.

On knees half lying in the semi-dark, a soldier's life concluding,

Pressing face to the torrid soil, I taste the ancient blood.

Hands out yearning to time, sorry for the unknowing, 

Questing for moments, questing for a moment more.

The raven haired lovely I never, never to hold, no,
The ebony stallion gleaming does not see me,
How I'll miss the tender beasts.

Smoke floods the scorched scape, mankind enraged, throbbing and I can't remember
the color of the iris flower, my never love, my steed graying, rifle stripped away,
tobacco pillaged in haste.

Morose tears on my face lifting, lonely to the sky.

I taste the ancient blood in the soil. I taste it with my own.