Wasted Praise


Chains of the sea will claim the wicked tide
and hush the falling waves that clash to bed.
Faintly, triumphant wind will blow and glide,
while toiling tocks of time will veil their dead.


Could those left ravaged on the battled beach
be sworn as victors, then be licensed life?
What force could drop from heights above our reach
which wrenches out their backs that bloody knife?


I’ll shake the laurels; grieve the startled birds
whose songs will hit and storm as thoughts in herds.
And when I call those nightingales, they’ll sing
those wasted words; in hero’s deaths they’ll ring,
“That scar will strike more glory far and wide
than thousands busted from the pounding tide.”