A poem by Gallan.

"Listen then these are the charms
And will I see your pleasure stretched
An even dozen they crowd the tomb
You can read the dead in twelve faces
And the winter months are long

The shields are hammered into splinters
Beating war’s time will never ring true
Fools stir in the crypt counting notches
And the snow settles burying all traces
Crows spill the sky knocked like ink

Babies crawl to the front line
Plump arms shouting proof ’gainst harm
The helms rock askew in pitching tumult
And the brightest blood is the freshest
Round the well charged and spatted

Cadavers cherish company’s lonely vigil
The tomb’s walls trumpet failures
Dressed as triumphs and glory’s trains
And the fallen are bundled lying under foot
Each year Spring dies still newborn

Listen then these are the charms
History is written for the crows
By children with red lips and eyes blinking
On the cocked ends of their tongues
And it seems summer will never end
―Hail the Season of War

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