Eleventh of Everything
Sky dimly lit by crescent moon
That itself clothed mostly in shadow
Yields little light
On those battlefields which
One hundred years ago
Run red with bloody rivers.
War is not deserving of poetry
But the lives of young heroes are,
Death ought not have it’s praises sung
But the courageous acts
Of fearful boys should be told
In tomes with guilded edges.
Today at the eleventh of everything
When no more bullets sang
I will still this heart that beats
In a nation still free
To thank those who found strength
To leave their home
To defend its definition.
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