A BATTLEFIELD OF TEARS
The bullets and the shrapnel,
Have ripped his flesh apart,
But the injuries that will never heal,
Are the wounds left in his heart.
He remembers the death of innocence,
The sound of blood-curdling screams,
The faces of young dead soldiers,
That haunt him in his dreams.
The unsteady mangled mountain,
Of bloody corpses piled high.
Join in the manmade insanity,
Or you’ll be the next to die.
The mortar rounds that kept coming in
Shedding evening’s only light,
As the weary, war torn soldier stands
Facing a dark and deadly fight.
All the young brave heroes
That were shot down in their prime,
The mothers carrying limp children,
Filled with shrapnel from a mine.
He remembers the struggle to survive,
As a comrade draws his final breath,
While sitting in a cold dark foxhole,
Staring into the face of death.
The loss of life by his own hand,
In the name of Democracy,
He lives in combat with himself,
And war is the enemy.
He came home a different person,
Than the boy he was before,
Where visions of death and destruction,
Are the reality of war.
The soldier’s heart remembers the pain,
He’s known the chilling feel of fear,
And in his blood-stained hands has shed
A battlefield of tears.
©Copyright 2002 by Chris Woolnough