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  • Writer's picturepoetrybyrainier

The Days of War

The Sun sets over a barren land; chill winds blow across the desert floor,

Fierce battles rage through the days; an eerie silence fills the nights,

Surviving soldiers return to camp; weary of body and tortured within,

The blood lust subsided; the need to prepare for the next morn,

Weapons must be sharpened; bodies must be rested,

For with the rise of another new dawn; a call to arms will surely sound.

Back in the day; there were no machines of war,

A life was taken; by the plunge of a blade,

A soldier’s arm plunged the blade; taking a brother’s life in vain,

A soldier’s arm tired with fatigue; with each thrust, his heart withers,

As he watched life’s blood flow; on parched soil of another’s shore,

Sun baked soil drenched in blood; the coyotes feast well each night.

Sitting alone after a meagre meal; the grey wolf laying at my feet,

Reflecting on my loved one and offspring; I sharpen my blade,

With the wolf in tow, I yearn for home; of loved ones who patiently await,

The young yearn to play wild and free; my love’s wish to lie by the hearth,

To return to what I cherish; the price I pay is the life of a brother,

A wife to not widow or children orphaned; the price I pay, carry the burden.

For the ideal of someone else’s dream; innocent lives are laid to waste,

If the warlords fought their own battles; many a Soul will still walk free,

But this has never been the way; soldiers were always the pawns of play,

Innocent lives sacrificed so young; lost Souls wander in the dark,

The Generals sing songs of glory; hands unstained from blood of the fallen,

While soldiers rebuild; their simple lives up heaved.

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