from thegreatillusion
The Battlefield

They dropped like flies,
they dropped like stones,
like petals from a red, red rose.

A wind blows across the desert,
a wind which erases all the signs
that you ever lived.

They perished here, and here, and here.
And tomorrow they might write their names
on some stupid stone;

and the irony of it is
that in a few weeks
maybe not even God will remember their faces.