Troop Trains' Triumph

Returning to what was called ‘home’

Staying cold despite layers of jacket,

Protected now, when the danger has passed.

Where were the loving crowds on the harsh sands?

The tears of joy to cleanse our filthy faces?

The soft handkerchiefs waving at our barren faces,

Like flags of snow from the desert sands.

The civilians ordered to death – and their tears of red coating our boots.

Here is so different

Calmer, one would say.

Every death results in a neat, square grave.

Not massive piles dug with bare hands,

Trampled down by military shells and bands of survivors.

And each vet comes home in honor

A hero, never a slave to their orders

Killing brainwashed millions until it was over.

When one rises up to protest, the reply is flat:

‘We’re sorry, we’re sorry!’ they cry.

‘We’re sorry we sent you to die!’