He was a young boy
Inflamed by stories
Of courage and bold mysteries.
His touch was too tender
To doubt his hold on peace.
His hold was so stout,
His reach so long
There could be no doubt
His honor held strong.
But to war he went
With others of similar grace;
Taking his place
among other young men,
Warriors all.
Each one eager to send
The message
That on one another
They could depend.
Wounded they returned
Minds twisted
by fierce heat of battle;
Bodies bent and broken by
Force blasts of explosions;
Emotions hardened
by cold orders and alerts.
Tough battles lost and won
Creating new stories untold
Except in nightmares shivering
Hot and cold.
Young men grown old.
Sons to us all.
Whom we sent to war
To stand and fall.
Forgive us, young men.
If you can.
annarino writes 