And who will count the dead, when all is said and done?

What of the ghosts; what of the skeletons, the rattling of their rusted chain mail, their necklaces of lead-capped teeth, their sabres of carved femur? Who will be left to account for the sacrificial lambs? Who will write letters of regret and compassion? Who will swim the river of guilt, only to drown in a sea of empathetic depression? Who will take the blame for a million swollen carcasses of rotting livestock? Who will reimburse for the losses? Is there anyone who will care for the crying babies? Will clemency exist for voluntary naivety? A smoldering stump neither tells tales nor sheds tears; the fire quietly gasps for one last breath which was stolen from the air long ago. Pride is but another defiled virginity. Hope is a cacophony of rupturing spleens. Strength of Heart is a drying puddle of blackness coagulating on the desolate soil of a sorrowful Mother Earth. When the smoke settles and clears, and tomorrow's sun forgets the darkness of today, who will then account for the hapless bystanders, for the masses who are now missing, the missing who are now dead? Not the Innocent, for they are too young to be heard. Not the Meek, for they have not been given a voice. And surely not the Blind, for We buried our heads in the provincial dirt long ago. Perhaps We would be counted amongst the dead… if anyone really cared.