The Glorious Dead.

It feels brutal to say it

but surely those killed in battle,

the fallen in this or that just cause,

are, like all who are dead,

well and truly and irredeemably dead,

as dead, indeed, as those never born,

are dead to absolutely everything,

even to history and its unfolding,

incapable of knowing anything,

not knowing who ultimately triumphed

or how the living might revere them.

All memories lost,

they know nothing of remembrance.

Yes, such thoughts may evoke our pity.

Nations, like religions, need their heavens,

realms of glory to receive the faithful.

But, judging the matter soberly,

surely there is no place on high,

not even in some dreamy idyllic sense,

for those who perished nobly,

no place where they may recline at rest

to reflect upon their sacrifice

and rejoice in the fruits thereof.

There again, such lack of reward,

such a bold entry into oblivion,

if foreseen, if coldly appreciated,

must suggest a kind of awful bravery

that might well oblige us to pause,

to be silent for a minute or so,

acknowledging that at least we know.