In the silence that is shadow
march these soldiers row by row.
Across the land that once was fallow,
off to war these soldiers go.
In their faces, lined and sallow
dies the youth that used to glow
and on the roots of upheaved willow,
bloodied limbs hang from a bough.
In their breaths that breath so shallow
whisper words so soft and slow,
which sing a song that is their sorrow
beneath the winds incessant blow.
And in the helmet their pillows
are tucked the places they can’t go,
and in the dawn that is tomorrow,
the seeds of war they’re set to sow.
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