BLOOD ON THE SAND

The bullets whistle 'round my head,
Deadly flechettes cast of lead.
Death hovers near at hand,
Waiting for my blood to stain the sand.

Though today may see my fate,
I will not deign, my foe to hate;
For he, as I,
Is loath to die.
And we both do strive,
To keep our mortal coils alive.

For on this field of fear and fate,
It is not each other that we hate;
But something else, impersonal and cruel,
The ideologies that over us both do rule.

If we had met some other time,
Outside this war, this incessant crime,
Perhaps we would end up friends,
Or at least could make amends.

But instead we are here arrayed
To carry on this damned tirade,
That neither wants, and both abhor,
This infernal game of war.

'Tis a cruel play, on a bloody stage,
Wherein we enact our roles of rage.
But who is wrong, and who is right?
And is there an end within our sight?

For those who sent us here to face our death,
And of themselves give only of their breath,
To extoll, loud and long,
The merits of some patriotic song.
These men, it seems, have no better yen,
Than to know blood flows from other men.

And with all their prate and prattle,
Send us on to one more battle.
"Attack to the last" they say,
But where are they on this fateful day?

Forward we are sent, and so we go.
Will I last the day?  I do not know.
But in my heart, and in my mind,
I pray there will come a time
When those who send their men to war
Will only be those who have been there before.

For maybe then they will understand,
Just what it is -
to see one's blood upon the sand.