The medals of my Great Grandfather

The mist of war clouds our minds.

The hills turn a dark red with blood of the fallen and red
with the flowers that bloom with our respect.

The air becomes heavy with fake hope and endless pain.

All our child’s toys and make believe games get dropped
into the mud of the trenches and covered with wrought iron metal.

The tiring torment drones on and on as we all topple to our graves.

Death stalks late tonight striking with precision, and yet the innocent still fall.

Hideous illusions clutter our mind and the pain of our friends fill our hearts.

The ground has turned into a raging river with the tears of our comrades and our families.

We throw away our dreams and hopes of becoming a painter, politicians and poets
For the drums of war still beat on.

Our hats come off one by one.
Our planes come into land.
With the smoke of pain trailing behind them.
All our heavy ammunition drops roll away.

Lines and lines of gray stone slabs overflow the church yards.
As we give our last thanks away.