Their field is wide Enough for the soldiers From every country in time. Crowded, always crowded, Not an inch to turn Away from so much grief. But still the god calls to them, "Make room! Make room!" And so they bunch closer Together, a Roman soldier, A Viet Cong boy in black, Doughboys without faces, Grudgingly make room For the new war dead Arriving unexpectedly At all dark, bloody hours. Death's badges identify them Victims of catapults, boiling oil, I.E.D.s, napalm and gas, Sticks and stones, All the tools of the wars That lead them all here Where there is no need To speak, only to acknowledge Tears and every once proud flag.
—Christopher Woods
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