The Casualties by J.P Clark

The casualties are not only those who are dead.

They are well out of  it.

The casualties are not only those who are dead.

Though they await burial by installment.

The casualties are not only those who are lost

Persons or property, hard as it is

To grope  for a touch that some

May not know is not there.

The casualties are not only those led away by night.

The cell is a cruel place, sometimes a haven.

No where as absolute as the grave.

The casualties are not only those who started

A fire and now cannot put out. Thousands

Are are burning that have no say in the matter.

The casualties are not only those who are escaping.

The shattered shall become prisoners in

A fortress of falling walls

The casualties are many, and a good member as well

Outside the scenes of ravage and wreck;

They are the emissaries of rift,

So smug in smoke-rooms they haunt abroad,

They do not see the funeral piles

At home eating up the forests.

They are wandering minstrels who, beating on

The drums of the human heart, draw the world

Into a dance with rites it does not know.

The drums overwhelm the guns…

Caught in the clash of counter claims and charges

When not in the niche others left,

We fall.

All casualties of the war.

Because we cannot hear each other speak.

Because eyes have ceased the face from the crowd.

Because whether we know or

Do not the extent of wrongs on all sides,

We are characters now other than before

The war began, the stay-at-home unsettled

By taxes and rumours, the looters for office

And wares, fearful everyday the owners may return.

We are all casualties,

All sagging as are

The cases celebrated for kwashiorkor.

The unforseen camp-follower of not just our war.