Who doesn't see
these things flicker through their dreams?
A campfire smoldering in the wooded night
the cook-pot boiling over fomenting the flames
This is Basque country, 1936
thirty years later in Ñancahuazú
Who doesn't see these things?
An Iraqi boy
his dark face luminous
walks past the barrel of an M16
The bleary-eyed gunman careens at his post
he's a good-old boy who's forgotten where he is
He's picturing the girl he never asked to dance
when his eyes roll back and his trigger finger slips
The gun flash bursts into riotous dahlias
red dahlias flourishing through the boy's skull
Who doesn't see?
Who doesn't see us marching
through the fields, all of us
marching through fields of red dahlias?