War is Kind?

“War is kind”, a poet once wrote. Kind to whom? Is it kind to her, laid out onto the ground, close to her loss? What do you whisper to someone who cannot hear, but yet is near? Should she share her sense of loss? After all war is kind. But what will he tell her? Would he too agree that war is kind?
She’s barefooted, like at a picnic. Or is she barefooted more like a corpse? “Why won’t the ground swallow me up?” We think we hear her say. The ground doesn’t swallow her up as much as she would want it to. She sees no union with her beloved. And so she mourns, and claws at the ground. But she is denied her wish. War is kind.
She thrashes yet again and again, but the earth stays unmoving.
“Why, why me?” she shouts in agony to the sky.
She is consumed with grief, but doesn’t understand.
After all, war is kind.
She hears that war is kind,
But yet does not hear from he who went to war.
His hand she can no longer grasp,
His lips she can no longer kiss,
His arms no longer wrapped around her.
War is kind she tells herself.
War is kind?