Bucephalus Blood
WW1
Here lies the gallon of horse’s blood
fallen soldier lies beneath this hope now dead,
trapped within mans’ sin
waiting for bayonets kiss.
In this moment of war, these seconds of time
the shadow of foe merges into one
and fate is held in mind.
The trigger or the knife?
To feel a man as blade enters his heart
can only come from hate.
The trigger is easier the civilised way
This conscience that looks on helpless foe
expected to kill, just one bloody more,
feels the cross of servants war
that Kaiser bids by heaven and crown
to give reapers charge his due.
For crown has right to heaven’s door
and empire would deny me this.
Yet my hand it does tremble
to see the eyes of England.
This soul of man with broken colours
for he is the wretch of me,
and though we speak in mother’s words,
I hear only the voice of common man.
For language can merge this pain
and our blood will always pour both ways.
And in this moment, these seconds of war,
my German heart strokes sorrow on comrade beast,
a reminder of edelweiss days
of mountain silence and the purity of home,
and a tear unites, what has been lost.
Hate and foe are gone this day,
replaced by Bucephalus blood.
For here lies a noble beast.
Bucephalus blood has touched the hearts of men
this moment of war is betrayed.
The soul of a soldier can walk away
and dignity is mine this day.
And as I return to comrades trench
this moment of life is all I have.
The clock of war demands the kill,
and this reservoir of blood runs deep
for men are but sheep
bleating before the gun,
this last supper is mans’ Judas in life
and death will cry a Ludendorff speech.
But not before I make my oath.
Bitter is the taste of Bucephalus blood
I will not shoot at you?
To waste this nature, this flower of time
taken from the valley of life
to be spilled by blind invention.
My grave will carry not your cross.
For man is not worthy of gallant charge,
his mind is drowned in tomorrow’s corpse
and killing is all that is planned.
For Peace lies hidden in common man,
banished to a mountain of hope
which war refuses to climb?
And the rope has taken the drop
For the voices who have cried.
This war will ride on Bucephalus back,
his spirit will die alone
and Alexander will weep among the gods
As brothers fall in Flanders field,
killed by widows rant,
and a righteous cross will remember them
anointed with the deeds of Bucephalus blood.
