A war machine of another day, 
as old as man, 
watches over a field of gray, 
causing what trouble it can. 
Two people meet on the field 
the weapon chooses its target well, 
unleashing forces only it can wield. 
Forth comes a mighty shell. 
More often than not 
fragments strike one 
and the other is missed by the shot. 
Is that what's meant by this gun? 
Shrapnel pierces the heart; 
the explosion's glare reveals, 
with a start, 
a wound that never heals. 
And as the weapon knows, 
learned from time upon that hill, 
if the victim is alone in his woes, 
then the wound of love can kill. 

November or December 1984