The young man stared at the gravestone with anger in his heart,
A soul torn by the knowledge of having friends depart,
"If this war," he said to himself,
"if this is what it means,
never saying goodbye fast enough,
not knowing when you're going to be
the one that dies next,
then I want no part of it.
For even the living shells seem
like dead men walking,
just waiting for their bodies to catch up
and their souls to cease talking."
The young man took his sword,
it was shining in the sunlight,
he raised it high with a gleam in his eye
and with anger burning bright,
drove it deep into the earth,
where they say all men return,
he had to learn in the hardest way
that some men turn back to dust
before their time has come.
"If this is peace," he said to himself,
"if this emptiness is what it is,
where all I see are visions of war not peace
contorting this hard won bliss.
If this haunting silence is what I get,
then I want no part of this."
The sword oscillated back and forth
from its pivotal point in the ground,
embedded into the loneliness with even the birds not making a sound.
And the tired young man fell to his knees,
at the foot of his comrades grave,
"They told me I would be safe at home,
but I only feel afraid."
He left the site where they buried his friend, and let him rest in peace,
but he left his sword still standing there,
a silver eulogy.
SK
