What will become of us?
There is no answer;
Only the sound of the wind
Moving through dead trees.
And choking dust rising
Beneath our feet.
The furnace burns throughout
The day;
We suffer in agony, as women
In labor.
But we die with the birth, for
Our child is war.
Now we fathers move forward
To meet our fate
In open fields and jungle paths
Strewn with death;
And call on the name of
Our God,
Who will not hear our pleas.
We pile high the dead
Into a pale, bleached mountain,
And swing our bloody bayonets
Skyward to honor the victor,
Who looks through red-rimmed eyes.
And, in time of pain, we die,
And, somewhere other than home,
Our names and faces are one.
Under steel helmets, fear equalizes.
One is one.
What will become of us?
In the end, Valhalla is our hell,
And Heaven is obscured
In our agony of pain.
Homeward-bound in aluminum tubes.
We know that in victory
There lies a promise of defeat.
- Anonymous
Like I said, for mature readers.
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