“He stares at the red, cracked earth while he thinks.
He hears the call; it’s time to go to war.
His feet march a cadence of fatigue,
His red, cracked hands grip the stock of his gun.
His rifle is almost too heavy now,
Weighed down by the death he claims with hollow pride.
Dead weight is the worst to carry they say.
At his side a brother erupts in red,
Fountains blasting forth, unstoppable, as
The rat-tat of the guns blisters the air.
He tries to piece his man back together
But he can’t, there‘s no man left to save.”
This is what his eyes say as we shake hands:
No “thank you” can bring a brother back home.