Any Spot on the Map

A Poem by Ross Vassilev

the souls of dead soldiers
come back as crows
sitting in the naked branches
the last moments of winter’s sunset
hollow eyes
they seem confused
as though wondering what they really died for
if anything
(their country? religion? Dow Chemical?)
perhaps they remember
the bodies of the dead
men women children alike
splayed out in the grass
of so many foreign lands
far too many bodies for counting
dead soldiers
haunting this earth
forever.

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