Classic Poem

The people of my country, of my village
left their brides and their homes behind,
fighting on the battlements they had made,
to stop the enemies' aimless pillaging,
so utterly remorseless and unrepentant. So
they howled raging at their fate.
For them it was an ever-blessed time but
the first blood flowed roselike from their breasts.
Spun out silence and meditation
trying to discover a new history but
the dead and a victory without wings—
I don't want to believe in such things!

Let's say more time has passed,
who will remember them then?
In a village of warriors
and streets where only so-called freedom remains
the brides grow old and the fatherless young
are raised, like grass,
in the midst of the winds.

It wasn't long ago, just a poignant tale of yesterday.
Those who invaded are still alive,
those who went to fight don't come back,
a ponderous reign of terror rules over us.
Ah, submission and a present without change,
the spoils of a battle that's lost its meaning,
my own rage and humanity's persisting grief
pierce the heavens.

Rain pours on the ruins and the hungry streets
as if mocking the battle we fought,
and we are weeping.
What can we do?
None of what we'd hoped for survives.
And even now, aren't our enemies still alive?