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Warriors (a poem)

     In those halcyon days of our youth
     When we donned our armor
     And went off to war, singing,
     We felt ourselves heroes,
     Brave enough to vie with gods.
     We believed ourselves men
     Whose names would live
     Long after our noble victories.
     But such dreams never last.
     Soon the day comes when fear,
     Or some crushing defeat,
     Or craven death claims a comrade
     And we are changed forever.
     War, then, is no longer a game,
     Or some fancified dream.
     Then the warrior cannot doubt
     War’s terrible reality—
     And it is very hard
     To be bravely borne,
     For it enfolds death
     And makes the going on,
     Seem unendurable.
    
      
     If we survive war’s reality
     And come home again
     To live among friends,
     To wander again the familiar environs,
     We no longer feel at home,
     For we who left can not return.
     Our spirits have been touched.
     Though our bodies are still young,
     They are scarred and broken.
     They have grown old
     And those who loved who we had been
     May no longer recognize us,
     May not understand our nightmares,
     Our impatience with the mundane.
     We who have gone to wars
     Walk with death at our side.
     We know what you do not yet see.
     But we can teach you much
     About life and death,
     Comradeship and duty,
     If you listen…

 

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