The Linnet's Wings The Sorrow - Page 106

The Linnet´s Wings Red & Purple Poppies in the Field John C. Mannone I know the name my master gave me. His owl-whistle call, I’ll never forget. But now, far from home, I only hear explosions of bombs, rattles of machine guns. My pupils burn at what I see— men of England, Germany, falling, I hate the smell of blood. And their blood runs the same color in a turbulent hail of bullets. Shells cutting them in two, hallowing this blotched ground scarlet. I am tired of pulling howitzers up hill and ambulances down. I want to bolt. All I dream is to plow the turnip fields; run meadows with grass of golden oats full of red & purple poppies. But there’re no hallucinations here, no somnolence for sucklings. I can no longer whisper in their ears the senselessness of war, the killing of my own kind—millions of us—on all sides. I am in chains that barbwire my flesh, my ears deafened, eyes blinded by so many guns—their flash worse than thunder & lightning, much worse. Where is my whistle call? 106