People who are others have had harder, more painful tales to narrate,
Been wretched with angst and pestilence;hunger and insatiation
Lost a parent or two, eyes, limb, insight, faith and hope ;
Honor, love, ambition and home for no fault of theirs, maybe.
They have taken hope in mere nothingness, and themselves
Cried to Lord, Eli Eli Llama ...... . there was no one else to cry to,
Perhaps not even the Lord, why would they have felt thus if He were?
And built themselves, as much as for themselves , still weeping.
What do I weep for: I haven't half the pain; eyes moisten, but heart's never wailed
The weary Chariots trundled into sunset; dust, blood, grime and disillusionment
Heavy on the forehead of the armored warriors whose flagging,creaky bodies followed
With no protest, among scythes that had sliced clanking on helmets that shielded.
They shall eat and sleep. to awake to go kill or get killed, chanting on their lips
'Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori'...it is glory to die for your fatherland.
They never cried,how ever could they - someone wailed their hearts out for them.
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