I see the faces of the men I'd known
and wonder at their still rigidity
the quietness of death surrounding me
in tears that flow because I'm now alone.
Their glances question all they've ever heard
of battlefields and warriors so proud
they never knew a shot could ring so loud
as one that dropped them like a wounded bird.
And blood turned black by evening's fading light
now decorates the gray and blue of all
not moving at the final trumpet's call
combining them as one beneath the night.
All dead, save me, and I am left it seems,
to wonder what became of brave men's dreams.