The wind blowing through their ranks,
like a hollowed log.
a boy thrust into manhood,
by a single command.
fear in his eyes,
and sorrow in his heart.
sword and arm,
moving as one.
stopping the thirst for his blood,
the carnage before him.
created by this murderous deed,
will forever stay in his nightly dreams.
his arm growing tired,
from ten thousand swings.
they say war is sweet,
but thats for those who never tasted it.
the copper taste or defeat,
or the bitter taste of victory.
either way in the end,
we never win.
