You could have wept to see her palate cleansed:
Spat bloodied foam, the Good Words, mangled screws of an iron fetter,
Though her teeth broke like crusted sugar in the grinding of lock and key.
You would have rosied your fingers in the stains surviving a concentration case,
Rubbed a little life into the face of things when the wound sprang up,
And blazoned your letter upon the pale.
When the flood comes:
These leaden handed pages will trumpet the herald call to scatter;
These kings and men will spur their flanks from carrion to spear-shatter;
These islands hewn in the stream cut strand will quake in two and two:
And the sight of a lice eaten messenger will blossom broken knees upon granite.
There was ever a little fairness, in love and life and war.
Her dusty scales bartered for second hand silk to clot up an enamel grin,
Scuffed tired boots to a well worn course where they'd never tread or been;
She would have been worth her wait in salt when the reverent's wide eyes lifted,
Or collapsed into yesteryear's muddied fold, where her crimson cracked hands sifted.

There are no brave little soldiers here.