Pyres

The soldiers are praised still resting in peace,
the bold white shine on a gem of the fleece,
pious before an altar and the smoke
that bleeds to glut divers
Lords, by a fount found in a steep hill;
fill,
with what the eyes secrets green shall fulfill,
at the summit of a mount by the classic Greeks,
and those that the light since birth fain seek,
at the altar apt much, liquid poured,
with statements bored, shrill colors
like sharp drills bridging two lands,
that slow each
with two hands that near mark and wide circles ward,
if the sea drags many judged, fixed in the deep,
asleep, utterly their fame can rest
by the flame of men enlisted best,
and a woman tattooed on their breast.