HERE AT THE GRAVE
OF GENERAL MEADE
What was this Gettysburg stuff if not death and
destruction: a cause worth defeating, for whom
and what cost? I don't know - and now, on a
Philadelphia hilltop I stand exposed in a blistering
Summer heat, looking down at a grave I've never
known. General Meade, at my feet, is dead; his
bright flag waving yet in this breeze. I don't know
why, or how matters are, but it little matters,
really, how this world runs its course. The dead
are their own, and all their silver and coins have
their cost. I won't even look down.
I just walk away.
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