Kransky took one in the head

his smile blown from his face,

the olive grove now green and red

Hail, Mary, full of grace.

 

The Warrior Poets pitch their pens

from Gijon, west to Alcazar,

convictions morphed from remember when’s

“El Corazon’s” know who they are

 

The heart and head are in the fight

torn between what gives them life,

The darkness of the coming night

a dagger or a surgeon’s knife?

 

From here, the edge of glooming war

we trudge the path that stretches back,

uncertain what it led here for

or how we judge its aftermath.

 

O’Malley caught a flying drone

his torso split in two,

the wheat fields fertilized with bone

God, forgive, the things we do.