'Aren't they beautiful in the sun!' she said,
Shading her youthful eyes against the light,
In rapturous wonder at the bombers' flight,
Silver against the blue cloth of the sky.
Her words dig up the half-forgotten dead,
The twisted metal, and the young face white
Beneath the irony of this same light
And air man thought to conquer. And the cry
Of myriad mothers, lovers and of wives
Whose hopes and joys are lost in endless night;
Who live, for lack of love, their aimless lives,
And dream, because they must, of all that might
Have been, if only…
Ah! Who knows what lonely
Pitiful cries the night hears, the empty bed
Of he who has embarked on that last flight…
'Aren't they beautiful in the sun!' she said.