The Art Of War

Take the ancient greyhound bus,
Ride into the night
Ride my child,
To the place long forgotten.
No longer is the hot blood red,
the bodies freshly charred,
no broken drums.
The blood has rusted,
The bodies freshly dug
And the drums can be seen,
on the face of the sun
This is where the battle
was fought
My sons, the tour guide says
This is where your fathers died.
Died for a cause.
Fought for an idea
In the form of an church
Fought for an idea, unswaying
Like grand old oak trees.
Though
No one would help them
They stood.
Fought them off
As fast as they could
Only to be left falling
Like a piece of wood.
Remember the day
The giant oaks swayed
Remember.
Remember dying for an idea
If better then dying alone.
Remember.