Tin Soldier

In twilight's hush, 'neath olive boughs, The wind does sing its somber vows, A tin soldier stands, a lone array, Where whispers waltz at close of day. His heart, a drum, beats soft and slow, A rhythm telling tales of woe, Of comrades lost to time's great siege, And victories that dwell in legend's cage. Once clad in colors bold and bright, His armor now, a ghostly white, Each dent and ding, a story scrawled, In the silent script of battles called. The soldier's gaze, beyond the hills, Holds fast to valor, free of frills, For he has known the sweetest wins, And tasted sorrow's brackish brine. His tunic, faded, threads undone, Speaks of the setting of the sun, Yet in its weave, the fibers strong, Upholds the right, defeats the wrong. He's fought for soil, for hearth, for home, For every inch of earth, to roam, And though his blade may rest at last, His shadow guards the peaceful mast. Through gales of change, of fortune's wheel, He stands unyielding, rooted, steel, A sentinel 'gainst night's embrace, His soul aflame with gentle grace. For in the quiet of his stance, He feels the pulse of second chance, A hope that in the morrow's light, His battle scars will spark the fight. So let us honor this tin knight, A symbol of the endless plight, His courage, like the olive trees, Whispers secrets of the keys to peace.