A soldier's cough

The morning dew appeared on the trembling lilies
Like bullets of clear sweat upon a soldier’s brow.?
One is tempted to think that deep in its valleys
Nature cries on itself tears of joy or sorrow.

Let there be no mistake, she only cries on men,
For why would she send rain on the tomb of her son
If not to show the proud what remains of them when
Their bones cannot drink under the scorching sun?

Yet even at this scene men arrogantly scoff,
Knowing that the heavens never whimper nor cry:
The living wait for death after a soldier’s cough
While flowers tremble near waiting to fade and die.