A sad sonnet sung into the bleeding night,
an idea we claim to stand and fight for,
an intangible that leaves our loved ones
crying on the edge of our borders--
straining against the horizon for news
of those returning whether on foot or in bags.
Those who understand no day is certain,
that every happiness is holy and precious,
And every moment to be made worthwhile.
A proud battle cry raised with the sun,
the whisper of hope driving in the dark,
the reason our soldiers live and die
in hell away from home and comfort.
Where hearts, minds and souls are tested,
tormented by what eyes should not see
and by what human hands should never do
for the sake of the love of land and family,
for the sake of all they've left behind.
Tear stained letters sent with hope from home…
Blood spattered discourse comes back in return.
Hearts stretched across the world
held flexible through practiced prayers
and broken by short and sudden violence.
Those left wondering, without word or news;
Children looking into the night for silhouettes.
And soldiers staring back through time
Memories emblazoned by why they do what they do