The twenty years testify
On the bench
In the cold
To the brazen
In the trench.
The hard years sleep
On the bench
With the nomads
To the ears and eyes
Of the wench.
Pour a glass to twenty-one
Be a daughter, a son
Who asks and doesn't tell
Who dreams of heaven in hell
Who draws Purgatory
Who paints for glory.
You can be a soldier
Or a witness, but not both.
Choose your oath
For the ears and eyes
Of the wench.
Sit in the trench
And later sit
As an old father, mother
And paint every studied detail: face of your
Enemy. No glory to be had
No rhyme to be sung
No drink on your tongue.
Just the silence of
Sage. Immoveable nomad.
You're out of the pit
And come back for round 2, bolder.
