Sons of Mars

Sons of Mars,
hear my prayer
in rows beneath your banner there:
these ugly ducklings
you would seek
to beautify, but cause to weep—
you don't, by murder,
make them swans.
Just mounds to plant your standard on.

O sons of Mars,
the wounded sky
of that land has few tears to cry.
The muted skulls
you liberate
beseech you now to contemplate:
does memory linger,
faint but true,
you once were sons of Venus too?