they’ve frozen with hands on weapons,
kneeled in prayer
under the hem of a blue monastery
and they are sleeping,
each in his icy solitary,
like trees bent by the weight of winter’s shiny medals,
one next to the other,
a grey wall,
living brick,
blowing into their fists, hopping to pull the trigger
once more.
sleep peacefully,
one knee to the ground, another against your riffle,
warm up the earth
with your mantels from which
next year
wheat will grow.