The Eagles

The air is tainted with the noisome breath

The wind from off the field of slaughter brings;

Alas! No mourners weep them for the slain,

But all unburied lies the naked soul;

The whitening bones of thousands strew the plain,

Yet none can now the pestilence control;

The eagles gathering on the carcass feed,

In every heart behold their half-formed prey;

The battened wills beneath their talons bleed,

Their iron beaks without remorse must slay;