And the troops go marching proudly by
as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,
the one that she seeks, she will never again hold
for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.
The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze
as man and boy march with well practiced ease,
so glad to be home after being so brave,
with flags overhead and not covering their graves.
She can bare it no longer as tears start to flow
down pale damp cheeks as she sways to and fro,
too much of their blood spilled on foreign fields
at the whim of the tyrants and their deadly deals.
Friends hold her up with compassion and love
and so many look down from the heavens above,
surrounded by many who share in her grief
but the feelings yield little by way of relief.
And the troops go marching with heads held high,
ribbons on tunics for brave deeds gone by
but each feels the loss of their friends and their kin,
and trauma buried deep beneath a mask, now so thin.
They’ve experienced things that just shouldn’t be done,
in the name of freedom, down the barrel of a gun.
The memories will haunt them for the rest of their lives
as they try to return to their children and wives.
But in truth and reality, how can any return
to their previous lives after all they have learned,
no love and compassion; no laughter and smiles
can replace what was lost across many long miles.
They’ve all left behind their innocent souls,
dead and buried in deep desert holes,
leaving them drained and with aching hearts
for a love and a life that has been torn apart.
And the troops go marching so silently by
on streets lined with people; cheering and cries
but she turns her back on this painful parade,
wishing time could roll back and her son would be safe.
And there’s rage in her heart for the tyrants who sent
so many to their deaths; so much blood spilled and spent
as they cover their coffers; their spoils of war,
like ghouls in the shadows keeping count of their score.
Rubbing their hands and patting their backs
lying and cheating and covering their tracks.
Another quick round in their wretched games,
the dice from the dealer dishing out death and pain.
The survivors will never sleep soundly again
for the loss and the scars will always remain
The ghosts of their past, ever present and near,
taunting as they sink in depression and fear.
And the troops go marching so slowly by
some holding back, some with tears in their eyes,
for the nightmare lives on in the world far and wide
where so many remain and so many have died.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 24th August 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.