Eleven Eleven

A hundred years ago today,
The wailing cannons ceased. 
The subterranean veins were dry
The end begat a war-like peace,
That seemed more like a waking dream-
All losers down, all victors high-
The lamentations of the dead
Hushed beside the quickening,
The world above still rushing by
Fond grassy coats and earthy seam,
A stillness of the reckoning.
Twenty years was all it took,
For these same pastures to be shook.