The Foot Soldiers’ Battle

Today’s battle draws nigh.
Tension in camp runs high.
Many will die at this place.
Worry rides on many a face.

The soldiers prepare themselves.
Thoughts of home each shelves.
The officers bark out commands.
“Doing your duty the day demands.”

The warriors all form into ranks.
Many stand on river Styx’s banks.
Helmets and armor are adjusted.
Their weapons must now be trusted.

They march forward, the enemy to meet.
Afraid, they keep control of their feet.
Onward they rush, because they must.
They know at dusk many will be dust.

As the battle lines meet, chaos ensues.
Hero or coward…each must now choose.
Confusion and turmoil reign supreme.
Fight or die! Is this real or a dream?

For hours the battle rages as men die.
To make sense of it each can only try.
Dust, noise, screams…a scene from Hell.
Are we carrying the day? Who can tell?

Comrade and foe contribute to the flood.
At battle’s end everywhere there is blood.
All left standing are thankful to be alive.
Each ponders, who decided he got to survive?

Generals already plan more battle the next day.
Foot soldiers wonder why must it be this way.
As long as Mankind has existed, he’s fought.
Each war has only temporary peace brought.

Must Mankind always resort to military might?
Will he never come to see that war isn’t right?
War represents Mankind’s failure to civilize.
Shall a world without war ever materialize?


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