After Cambreadth Words by John C. Bunnell © 1995 TTTO March of Cambreadth by Heather AlexanderVultures cry, cloth turns red; voices moan among the dead; "Medic here!" comes the fevered cry, though no soldier fears to die; Surgeon's steel, seared white-hot, burns out poison, cuts out rot; To the gods our oath we give: How many of them can we make live? To the bloody tents they come; silent now the horn and drum; Slashed and maimed in the heat of war, ours the duty to restore; Wood and leather, flesh and steel -- that which kills may also heal; Hands and hearts and skills we give: How many of them can we make live? Through the evening, through the night, by the moon, by torch's light; Battle joined on another field, Death itself called on to yield; Bodies we can make half-whole; someone else must patch each soul; What we can is what we give: How many of them can we make live? Shattered bodies, shattered lives, yet the will to live survives; Our fight ends, but the world goes on; twilight yields the sky to dawn; Herb-wife's wares and surgeon's skill, on the wounded work their will; This is all that we can give: How many of them can we make live?