Lament for the Dead by James Merry

O, for quiet places,
Where the war has not touched,
For the few are now scattered,
As the terror comes to pass.

But for the valiant,
To die in battle,
Heroes everlasting,
Yet it cannot feed a family.

Blood-soaked ground,
With torn pennants flapping,
A sign for those gone,
And their death now forgotten.

The victors get the glory,
The women , the riches,
The admiration of young boys,
But who remembers the uncounted dead ?

Life comes, Death takes,
Yet we struggle in our time,
Hoping and dreaming,
Dreams and hopes unattainable.

The crows feast on the rotted flesh,
The widows lament,
But no-one knows, or cares to know,
Better to turn a blind eye, they say.

We try, we fall, we go,
So do all,
A few gain immortality in legends,
Never looking back on the dreadful truth.

Sometimes, we achieve, we prosper,
But only on the back of the poor,
Who cares about them (?),
For they do not matter.

History is told by the victors,
We do not know the horror,
The suffering, the death,
For who would want to ?

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