At a Soldiers' Cemetery

At a Soldiers' Cemetery

Each tombstone placed neatly in a row,
A mistake made with youth in tow,
War can be a path not taken,
No one here said, "I will not go."

Are these tombs of heroes? Do they say?
Which war was it?, and whose side did they
fight for or against, or does it matter?
Is life any better on another day?

Each one moving far from home,
where one day there came a phone
call or a letter, where the deep red blood
had stained the veins of cerulean to stone.

The dead lay facing up, in no more pain.
They see, perhaps, their light of fame,
as well as night with its moon and stars,
planets in their orbs, darkness, and rain.

These lives and more are gone it will seem,
as long as warfare goes on. Some tombs they deem
anonymous, where there is a dream of one beloved,
whose life is now gone; no one heard the scream.

There are other roads that could have been taken,
roads that would not end in tombs, forsaken.