Poetry of Issue #7        Page 33

COLD STEEL SUNLIGHT SLICING LIKE A
KNIFEBLADE THROUGH TREES

i celebrate the old warrior at death's
door, lips pressed cold to the wet lips
of earth, earth like paradise, earth like
release, the old warrior, who was not
always selfless, not always brave, who
was not always perfect or generous
but who understood brotherhood in
his bones and fought for justice, not
for gain, and for the triumph of liberty,
certainly not to extend man's dominion
over men -- played for a fool by his nation
sometimes, used by selfish men too --
the old warrior, tired now, beyond the
grave but headed there anyhow, what
else can a man do, nobody understands
anybody these days and nobody will ever
vote for him or follow him over a hill
again -- not yet finished with this thing,
not quite at the end of this long poor
journey, unsure of his footing and this
worst of all passages, eyes fixed on a
target few of us see anymore, dim, dim,
slipping stone by stone away from this
thing they once called honor, heavier
than riverrock, and yes his shoulders
failing, and yes what is left of his white
hair falling across his eyes, falling like
heaven or snow falls, or artillery fire.

  George Wallace