Weapons of War / Bury 'em

I attempt a circle back to the point of infection - and a revelation hidden in smoke Face to face with death, armed and brutal a phalanx with empty eyes, minds torn and forced to fit They are the glacial wall, cracked, holding an inland sea. Is this where I'm to give the devils name? Is that the one useful thing left to say? Instead: Unearth the hatchet, compose a binding poem put down the flowers - for every part of this is beauty quiet the melody - for we hold an uplifting thing hush the playful chords - when it's time for arms to sing. is it too much to ask, for the end of everything? to call and raise that scrap of midnight cloth one final time? In the future I see: routed then buried the rot, and I watch her walk free the sun shines down on a wild land, shielded by this memory. and they'll suffer no longer from hunger, they'll suffer no longer from thirst.