The Dying Soldier's Last Thoughts
Dark clouds are smouldered into a blood red,
While down on the ground,
The Earth burns.
The dying trooper shifts his dead,
To watch the horror that returns;
His fingers are lifted up to the skies,
Where the Lord's brightness breaks into flames.
Sorrow is reflected in his eyes,
And through his lips,
A whispered bames.
You'd think, the sounds of soldier's talk,
That lads go West with sobs,
And spewing at the world,
With bloody faces red as fire,
Hankering with wreathes,
But they've been taught the way to do it,
Like Holy soldiers,
Not with haste,
And shuddering groans,
But with passing through it,
While disregarding their distaste.