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Throughout the ages of time
men have marched
men have fought
men have bled
men have died
For a field of land deemed strategic, an advantage, even holy
ghosts of wars past cling to the soil waiting to welcome
 those of the future.
Dead, the old men to the young boys
for glory for victory for peace
The fog fingers it way to heaven as if it was the smoldering smoke
of cannons firing.
A flash of lighting strikes as a blade of steel cutting into the flesh
forever scaring a young face.
Roar of thunder cracks and booms as rifle fire in sync mowing down
rows and rows of advancing soldiers falling into the muck of war.
Flags falling onto the field to soak the blood from dying soldiers
bleeding their souls into the earth.
Listen and hear phantoms of combat from mortal souls, hand to hand
fist to fist, bayonet jabbing, swords slashing, spears piercing flesh.
From sling shots to arrows to bullets to bombs
on and on and on constant wars
Fight for survival
for conquest
for greed
for victory
for glory
Reasons enough for young men to believe
War claims the sons now seduces the daughters
death is the great equalizer.
 
 Quiet and calm, sounds of peace
a soft breeze blows through the waves of grass
The field is beautiful
wild flowers grow through the rust of shrapnel
haunting whispers echo the sound of beating drums
The drumbeat of war marches on for generations gone and arriving.

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