War Dead

We see them as names engraved
On a wall that is black and gleaming.
Is that our reflection, or do we see,
As through a dark screen,
Their faces scanning ours?
We reach to touch their names,
Letting our feelings of awe penetrate the etchings.
The feeling is dreamlike, but serious.
We are aware of death's blurred nature.
We are on both sides of the wall.