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---
Ironic, is the way
war is it's own end.
The very makers
of chaos become
makers of their
suffering's end.
When the bodies
are counted
and the changed lives
wither and shatter
then move on.
The only sounds
the living find,
silence and flames,
the silence of the dead
the scorch of fire
upon them.
Becoming embittered
of their survival
they desire to
join with them.
As the price
of seeing their
families grow
from behind
a marble wall
is small
in comparison
to what they
could lose.
With sheathed swords
we hold our honors,
and I think
on the empty chair
I may leave,
if I never come home.
(edited by Kyokushin-ka on 05-27-02 06:29 PM) |
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