Sisyphus at Bull Run

From a forced, fitful slumber they strain to arise
With the darkness and dirt of the grave all around.
After all these years, ignorant of their demise
Their young souls full of fight, that would burst from the ground.
They were stopped in their tracks by a rebel force keen
As they gathered like storm clouds above fields of green.
Eager crowds from the city had followed to see
The rash rebels run, routed, and Beauregard flee.
Still the words of dead generals ring in dead ears:
"Send them all back in boxes to Robert E. Lee!"
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Bright blue uniforms tattered, and no one is wise
To the absence of motion, of light and of sound
Since reality neither appears nor applies
To an underground army in death's dressings bound.
Still, an iciness grips them, as cold hands unseen
Wrap their foul, phantom fingers around the pristine
Patriotic young spirits still yearning to be  
The defenders of Union, and pride of the free.
But they slough off uneasiness, banish their fears
Knowing nothing of destiny's dreadful decree.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Apprehension exhumed speaks astonishing lies
Whispered over the phantom reports that resound
Over landscapes surreal, under false summer skies
That would fade in an instant were truth ever found.
But the damp cloth of death often wipes the mind clean
Of that fierce, final blow, leaving one in between
Realms of substance and shadow, to cling like a tree
To a desolate heath strewn with weeds and debris.
Resolute that their duty not fall in arrears
But unable to fight and forbidden to flee.  
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Somber columns of stones greet the visitors' eyes
But an upsurge of sentiment swells from the ground
Stifled patriotism, and rage that belies
The initial tranquility seemingly found.
And the living grow quiet, attempting to glean
Further psychic impressions that hover unseen.
There are courage and hope, and the smallest degree
Of repressed trepidation, a silent, last plea.
But the dead can keep secrets for thousands of years
Secrets locked behind doors to which none have the key.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Still the dead soldiers dream of their final goodbyes
To their mothers and sisters and wives who surround
Them with sad valedictions and watery eyes-
Then a mournful farewell from a faithful old hound.  
With their guns locked and loaded, physiques hard and lean
A fierce phalanx of Federals heads toward the scene
Of the rebels' last stand, for the Yankees agree
That the South's Armageddon will take place at three.
Fire and smoke fill the air as the enemy nears
But serene is the creek that traverses the lea.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Cycled ad infinitum, until at last the
Uninformed, restless souls heed death's final decree.
The Assumption of silence, as ancient veneers
Faintly flicker and vanish, thus setting them free.  
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

© March 22, 2005 by Allan M. Heller