The Game of War

Tin sword in hand and paper cap
Aslant your tousled head,
You play at soldier all the day
Until I snatch you from the fray
And carry you to bed.

A sword beside your strong white hand —
You lie so still, my son! —
A crimson stain upon your breast,
Closed eyes, at last a little rest.
The game is done.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.