Welsh Journals

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CYPRUS: 1958 I know that I should talk and talk Of the necessary victories and sing A noisy epic, how sacrifice Must path a return of spring Before the new green towers to the sky. I admit, too, it is useless to question why. I know that I should speak of a battle, And see two sides fighting for amity, Telling how statesmen cannot turn the key Until the door is forced. I know it is important that they boast A victory, and the dead hang Like Christmas presents from the trees. I know I should celebrate a military glory, Poets have many times fashioned this story: The elegy of victory, the triumphant state Whilst the second bites the dust. But I can think only of an old man Reverent with age, groping Before a shell-pocked home. His silvered hairs expect no second dawn. Beside him, in the cool shadow of this cypress, A mother, her loves as tattered as her dress, Grieves a husband and son, Her foot kicking their dead leaves. A child cries by an open door. The victors may do as they please. Forgive me if I do not try to catch The march and colour of your battle song. My gaze cannot reach past the boy Sprawled in the sun, his gun, like a toy Cast indifferently aside. Because it hurt so much he died. I think, for he was young, At the last he cried and swore