History sleeps

People still find bits of bone in the field.
A button here. A bit of metal there.
From a belt? The lock of a rifle, the wood rotted away?
The grass grows on and on.
Over the low, rolling hills.
The living, the veterans, the survivors, with their medals and crutches, walk over them, remembering this, pointing here and there.
Telling their wives and children what had happened.
What they had done. And what had been done to them.
As the sun sets and the moon rises, and the wolves and ghosts come out.
History sleeps, and we grow forgetful.

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