Non-Combatants

Sunlight soft-flowing,
earth-pulses slowing—
pleasantly glowing
sweetly at rest:
thrush in her bower, bee on his flowee—
powdered his breast.

Yes, the birds on the hill
singing and singing:
Heaven at brill.

Breaks the dull thunder
silence asunder;
bloodshed and plunder
loosed on the land.
Hillsides are shattered,
shell-torn, blood-spattered,
blown into sand.

And the birds on the hill,
aimlessly flutt'ring,
sorrow their fill.

Bruit of slaying
dies; and the greying
night falls, conveying
rest to the eyes.
Bereft creatures wailing;
unheard, unavailing
their voices arise.

With the birds on the hill
crying and crying,
all becomes still.

—Bas.