Dust on the ground of the large, barren space,
Drops on his cheek as he remembers his base.
The bunks of the beds, the life once inside,
The room is now empty; no place to hide.
The sounds of the shots ring through the air,
But a glance around shows it to be bare.
The heaps of dust, the staining of red,
It couldn't get worse, he thought in his head.
Bodies upon bodies, piles upon piles,
The stretch of land that went on for miles,
With hundreds of men as cold as stone,
Had lay ahead of him; but he was alone.
Broken bones, wounds and slits,
Bashed-in heads, a small pink clip
That belonged to the child of the one he had known
Before the small grenade had been thrown.
He remembers the image; it's stuck in his mind,
The one of the man who was always behind;
Who he loved like a brother, they argued and fought,
But that's come to a cease; the words that are sought
Can never be heard, now that he's passed,
Unlike the cries of the child when pulled out of class.
The names of the people carved on the rock
Will always be there, but the people will not.
They'll rot in the ground, turning to bone,
As life will move on, but he'll be alone.
The destruction of land and killing of souls
Is what war has achieved; what is the goal?
Terrors of night as he imagines his death
Playing over and over, though there's nothing left
To fear, as he's seen it all;
The screams and shouts; the blood and falls.
Innocent people are caught in the fight,
Killed or maimed, others take flight,
But are left without something, person or thing,
They barely survive, they're hurt or dying.
A tight hold on his body as she quivers, in tears,
His hand on her stomach, hushing her fears
Of him not returning, he thinks in distress,
As his best friend is lowered and put to rest.