In a remote corner of the Republic
far from the burning capitol
under clouds the color of iron
a well-tailored suit
that tries to keeps the cuffs of its pants
from getting muddy
staggers across a snowy field
toward a forest.
Church bells in the distant village
and the sounds of peasants
sharpening their scythes and billhooks
are drowned out by a swarm of crows
who ridicule the suit because
it’s empty and all that’s left of its
former dignity are a few decomposing
medals pinned to its lapel.
© 2010 J.M. Keating