THE SOLDIER These fields were once alive; festooned with golden wheat. Which gave us grain; which gave us bread, which gave us life. But now they’re red with blood; the blood of men at war. And somewhere far away a widowed woman wept; her babies cried. The soldier died a hundred times and then one hundred more; as countries went to war. And Heaven’s thankless rain; each drop a wasted wish, with no remorse soaked through the soil; turned trench to dyke. To blend the brave young blood of friend and foe alike. Then each unanswered prayer, like some rejected bride, fell from the air. The soldier died a thousand times and then one thousand more; another bloody war. He heard the rifle roar; he watched the warm blood spill. He felt the pain, the pain of death. “Why me?” he groaned. He’ll never ever know, the man who he’d just killed. There is no lonelier place than on a battlefield; or in a grave. The soldier gave a million times and then one million more; a war to end all wars. The wheel of strife rolls on. It leaves a blood red stain of jealousy and thirsting greed through history; the ignorance is plain to all with eyes that see. For every medal earned; for every grave we’ve filled, we haven’t learned. The soldier died a billion times and then one billion more. The human KIND at war. D.Wood 2011©
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 23:03:26 +0000
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