Death's Hue

In the blinding sun the black caravan rounds the bend
Mid towering dark sheds and leaves of yellow green,
Beautiful red roses fall to their short-lived end,
A brilliant mind rests on the frail form-unseen.

Throngs on the autumn hills, brown with fall grass,
Their white shirts flicking in the gathering night;
Each waits their fallen hero here to pass,
Red-eyed from weeping, anxious for the shuddersome sight.

The silent golden moon stands guard
As the white plane with long blue flashings lands,
The yellow cargo lift moves near and pauses
To accept it's burden from a crimson-colored hand.

Black drapes, the stressed red, white and blue
Receive upon it's polished, gleaming floor;
Men, great and small that he once knew,
No color barred to see him just once more.

A sky of many blues looked down that day,
The rideless black horse turned and pranced,
A caisson comes pulled by six matched grays,
Loved ones kneel to kiss the flag, without a glance.

She comes, black veiled in death,
Imploring God to take the spirit of this man,
On her arms two young bluebirds rest,
For others remain, the returning of his body to the land.

To do him honor they line the plot,
Green berets, Irish Guard, troops full of might;
To a fallen Father a son's salute is caught,
Jets, cracking guns break the silence of the night.

The ground is touched , the flames arise,
And in the orange tongues of flame a nation cries.
Brothers and widow stare, postponing the moment of their loss.
To be a great president, what has been the cost?