Tragedies At War
Poem By Roy Whitman
The bugles call, the trumpets blow, the fife and drum join in.
The young men they all jump to arms while mothers' tears begin.
It's fine to see this brave display of men in rank and file.
Despite the cannon, shot, and smoke that reign the land with hate,
These soldiers fight with strength and vigor, knowing not their fate. The battles rage, the soldiers tramp, the bullets are dispersed.
They sting the heart and wound the pride of all of those they hit.
The fields are spacious, dark and deep and all is now unlit.
And only there are trodden corpses, bloody and contort. The heavens sob, the earth it weeps in gloomy harmony.
They mourn the death of their creation that have ceased to be.