Bhurin Posted January 10, 2002 Report Posted January 10, 2002 This poem is neither medievel nor lighthearted in nature. I wrote this some time ago as a personal attestment to those who served their countries and paid the ultimate sacrifice. This poem has taken me places I never dreamed I would be. Perhaps I shall entale those places someday... Though older then some others, I still consider this my best work. Enjoy. Remember To fight in a war is a very strange thing, For it's both tangible and not. And, in rememberance, we should think not why, But who it was that had fought. A young man so happy, full of hopes and ideals, Hears of the enemy's threat. The next thing he knows, he's taking up arms, With people he's never met. But he thinks it's right, to go train and kill, For his leaders have said it was so. His pride leads him through, and he does not think, That it might just be best not to go. He arrives fresh to battle, and he is struck dumb, To enter this strange, new land. But he is snapped straight, for soon he will fight, As they search through the swamps and the sands. But things are cut short, as they're attacked from behind, Have no chance to use the guns in their hands. Where were their leaders? Who all spoke of glory? As this young man's blood soaks the land... Back at home as they wait, the family wonders, And then there's a knock at the door. A letter is given, but not held long, For soon it is dropped to the floor. Tears are shed, as comfort is given, But it is not taken to heart. The father curses the enemy, but his son contradicts, That it's not only they who took part. The young son yells that his father's at fault, "My brother was killed by your pride!!" His father insists that his son is a hero. He not so much yelled as he cried. The family is torn, and then it soon splits, As everyone mourns for the dead. But those who sought power, are still cheering loud, And not one tear from them has been shed. And that young man's hopes, and all his ideals, Shall never be fulfilled. For his ultimate sacrifice, he receives naught, Even though all his blood has been spilled. Signed- Edited by: Bhurin at: 1/11/02 8:30:16 pm
Peredhil Posted January 10, 2002 Report Posted January 10, 2002 May I give this to a friend of mine? He's a Vietnam Veteran who's never quite come home...
Bhurin Posted January 11, 2002 Author Report Posted January 11, 2002 Bhurin smiles, and nods... You are not the first to ask. Please do...
Peredhil Posted March 3, 2003 Report Posted March 3, 2003 This is timely, time for a bump. Reformatting old poems is a labor of love with many golden nuggets found - Like this one.
DoomGaze Posted March 3, 2003 Report Posted March 3, 2003 seriously, where are you good poets come from? lol! u just appear outta nowhere.. Wow, this poem is superb, and i can see why it is one of your best. BAH!!! Im speechless... it is so good! WoWwOw!! Thx For Sharing!!
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