Trudging on.
Through the mud,
In the blood
Of comrades,
Horses,
Foes and more.
Bullets sing
Passing by
Whistling tunes
Of death
Of peace
Promised,
Broken lies.
So on we trudge,
To war,
To memorials
Made grubby
By foetid air,
Cleaned sometimes,
By guilt.
Names etched
In stone,
In brass,
In hearts,
Forever.
Now
they celebrate,
Remember
With
sorrowed brow,
The
sacrifice,
The
death,
The
futility of war.
Politicians
colluded
In dark
Secret
rooms,
For
genocide,
In all
but name,
To rid
the world
Of
dross
Of
young
Of
talent
Of
families.
Politicians
survived
To
wreak havoc again.
One
hundred years pass,
Still we let them.
.
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