How do you know they are beautiful?

How do you know they are beautiful,
with faces behind masks?

How do you know they are beautiful,
with lines hacked into skin,
and eyes blooded from sleepless dreams of deaths and sin, tossed into caskets
before last breaths expired and goodbyes were said?

How do you know they are beautiful,
Marching into battle,
Armoured in scrubs that festered beneath days-old rags?

How do you know they are beautiful,
with fatigue mounting on their backs,
Till thirst and hunger gave way to the blight.
No relief in sight?

How do you know they are beautiful?

How do you know they are beautiful?
Were they not liars, conspirators? Discordant enemies of the people.
Rats, Rats, Rats!

Crush them, boy! Bring them to heel
with righteous and riotous might of the people’s Eyes.
Fervid Eyes. Burnished Eyes. Infallible Eyes.
How do you know they are beautiful?

How do you know they are beautiful?
With their corpses now stiff,
And silent finally in the dying of the light?