Death sings sorrow to an
immortal sphere, songs of
battle fills our eyes with tears,
young are the men and women,
steady and bright, how many
of their lives will be taken tonight.
Many will fall to the foe, odds
uncounted, yet with a command
they go, the odds known, that they
shall never grow old, some will
argue war and condemn, but they
are not the ones who will remember
them.
A mother mourns for the flesh of her
flesh, the spirit of her spirit, fallen in the
cause to help others from tyranny be
free.
They will sit no more at the familiar
tables at home, they lay fallen in a land
to some unknown, from their families
forever hidden out of sight, and there
will be an ‘empty chair” at their
mothers’ table tonight.
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