In memoriam of the men who perished and were placed in the grave called The Bloody Lane at Antietam battlefield during the Civil War.

What blood of my blood has bled over thee, Thy path of immense breadth and gravity?

To what boy of a boy of a boy of me, has lied his fetal face?
For like a harbored dormant ship, the sails oft have gone to waste.

To what foot of a foot of a foot of me, carried these burdened men?
and what piles of them grew so constantly, upon the stretch of thy grave, sickeningly bruised and forlorn, over and over again.

To what heart of a heart of a heart of me, has chosen their last breath on this place?
The hunger empty filled them whole, but in thy pass of silken dirt, construe another, lonely taste.

To what eyes of eyes of eyes of me, have seen a world concealed?
A hell among smoke and upheaved ground, its presence was revealed.
Beneath the wooden fence and plank, 6 feet high, they gathered in this field.

To what days of days of days of me, have drifted off in vain? In this hollow ditch, the memory has surely left their stain.
Behind the scab of wild grass, and bower from the tree, I find the boundless souls of The Bloody Lane, And a little piece of me.