The Cost Of Conquest
I wrote this about a year or two ago, thought I would post it for something to do.
As I walk the streets, the bodies of my own men, along with those of my enemy's, they cry out to me. Even in death these poor souls find a way to disturb me, to haunt me, and perhaps to kill me. I wonder, will it ever be worth all the blood it has cost? Will this war ever be seen as what it truly is? Men killing men over our ideals. And yet some would have us believe that it is just that simple. I would like to believe it is that simple. But it is not so, our fight may prove to be useless, our cause may prove to be tainted, by the schemes of our leaders who rest on their thrones. But our blood, our blood stays here. To whom do these puddles of blood belong to? It matters not, we are all men, in our own way we are all one. So, as friends and as enemies, we bleed together. On different sides of the battlefield, on opposing fronts, we bleed. In another way, we are all to blame. I carry the weight of this burden, along with all the others still alive. The mothers, they ask me if I have seen their sons. Sometimes I have to tell them the truth, all their sons, have died in the service of their country. An honorable death is hard to come by. But I truly hope all the men who have died here met an honorable death. Even if they did, will it be enough? Enough blood to pay, the cost of conquest.