Dozen babies line the halls, all so sweet as Summer's day. Time their wingman, they will play, toil in the seasoned soil with their ragged, cherished dolls. Dozen children line the desks, bursting at society's seams, incubated, stubborn dreams giddy to see golden dawn, blindingly so picturesque. Dozen "men" line the trenches, working only to sustain humble goals (others have drained). 'Cross merry eyes who shone bright, crucifix dims and drenches. Seven men line the Ward's beds, smiling sorely to nurses, each adjustment flows curses. Babies are born. They are here, exfiltrating buttons lead. Five lives who have lived too long, stared too closely at the Sun, wish they were where they'd begun, to contest a mother's womb, seeping slumber from her songs. Four old folks whose watches ticked out of tune of day's heartbeat, a mission left incomplete. Adult kin offer repair, but rancid acid has leaked. Two gouged husks who now fight in kneel upon their brothers' graves. They'd thirst for more if still slaves to machines too hard to grasp. Tears clink against plots of tin. One troop clings not to a gun, lying in a bed bereaved, patting sons who'll be relieved, kissing bony hands like his. What's unknown can't fail again.