As rockets explode and soldiers stray,
by Alexander Presniakov
craters emerge and people pray.
Such is war the struggle, the pain.
But can anyone be certain it is not in vain.
Men charge gallantly sabers raised,
only to return bent and crazed.
Through the ages men had thought,
to wage war but what has it brought.
Ruins and sorrow, hunger and grief,
hardship and destruction beyond belief.
Foolish are those who think it wise,
to plot devilish fury to plan demise.
The greatest of warriors do not fight on the field.
They control their anger, their hatred, their zeal.
For what is a battle but soldiers and drums.
Hunting each other until it becomes,
late in the day and through darkness vain stares,
loosing sight of his target, he stumbles and fairs,
no better than his opponent, until the trumphet blares.
The war is over, the fighting desist, perhaps now will come peace.