And so again it commences,
That dull stir in our souls,
When upon some reminiscence
Memory drowns us in gall.
When we think of the days far gone,
There is not any solace
Relishing in what we have won,
Nor peace for pain’s past tense.
We reflect on our trophies past
And we regard the woes;
Chronic sadness, the mental pest
Rends our hearts and then ploughs.
The seeds, once grown, wave in the wind,
Our memory’s constant gush,
And the tiniest spark of a flint
In flames our souls does awash.
And soon, the gall snuffs all the fire,
And leaves but barren hearts,
Butchered by those deep, black furrows,
Their appearance so marred.
In those trenches, in No Man’s Land,
Settle keen riflemen,
And they make a courageous stand
Against misery’s regiment.
And then, how do we hurt others,
Those close to us the most,
For the soldiers know not friendlies,
Nor do they mind the cost.
It depletes the army, well-meant
Though zealous defenders,
All their energy they have spent