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Poem

They said the sun would rise again,
But not how red it burns at dawn—
A bleeding orb above the hills,
Where shadows march and boys are drawn.

We kissed our mothers’ hands goodbye,
The station rang with rust and steam.
Our boots were new, our hearts unscarred,
Still halfway clinging to a dream.

The sergeant’s voice was gravel-rough,
It ground the child from out our skin.
He spoke of duty, blood, and soil,
And drew the line we crossed within.

Mud clings like guilt to every heel,
A second skin of broken earth.
We carve our names in trenches deep,
And pray they’ll mark our measure's worth.

The sky is bruised with smoke and fire,
Each star now stares with hollow eyes.
The moon looks pale, ashamed to shine
On fields where innocence now lies.

I saw a man who looked like me—
His helmet split, his fingers curled.
He mouthed a name I couldn’t catch
Before he left this iron world.

And yet we charge when bugles scream,
Like leaves thrown into God’s own flame.
We hold the line for those behind,
Though none of us return the same.

At night, I write in trembling ink,
To someone I may never see.
"Dear Ma," it starts, then bleeds with truth—
Your boy is gone, but still I breathe.

This path we tread is paved in bone,
A bitter road of blackened fern.
The wind behind us whispers low;
We’ve passed the point of no return.

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