They come to my table,
the forsaken men,
from their lands
of iron and mud.
Where smoke and poison
choke the sky
and their brave blood
drops heavy with the bullets.
Where rats feast
on corpses that come
a penny a pound;
because it’s cheaper than feeding a man.
Where they
clutch at holes
in their bellies, and ache from pains in
missing legs.
But these things don’t
drive them here.
The ache of hunger and the sting of violence
are pains long-endured.
But when they realize that
none love them,
and they are wanted only for
the brief strength of their arm,
Then they crawl to
my table,
and find wine-dark succor,
in madness.