A foundation of sand

Come with me, and we might be made whole again.

those streets, so paved with by-gone shattered dreams,
make no foundation strong enough to hold.
the tears of ruin’d men and children’s screams
made mute by wartime stories left untold.

they fear the daylight, straying from the path,
they miss the bloody, war-torn aftermath.

the soldiers march in columns: two by two.
the distant faces show no trace of art
or warmth. their chant, a soldier’s cry, rings true:
“’tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”

...come with me...

the thunder booms across the battlefield
and strikes down those who stand with nerve to fight.
the armies, marching forth, refuse to yield,
and strident clamor clashes through the night.

now -- silent. death comes bearing peaceful sleep,
no witness over mangled corpse shall weep.

...and we might be made whole...

for those who died, the moon shall ne’er retreat,
but those who live might see the shining Light.
a city sleeps while one still roams the street,
the day comes not to those who thrive at night.

the soldiers march in columns: two by two.
“’tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”